Fra. This is most strange,That she, who even but now, was your best object,The argument of your praise, balm of your age,The best, the dearest, should in this trice of timeCommit a thing so monstrous, to dismantleSo many folds of favour: sure her offenceMust be of such unnatural degree,That monsters it: Or your fore-voucht affectionFall into Taint; which to believe of herMust be a faith, that reason without miracleShould never plant in me.