BRAD
This foul ex-Lara Croft, she hath betrayed me:
The foulest gossip papers hath besmudged me; and yonder
In the forums, publications, they desecrate me.
Triple-turn’d whore, they call me in the press; ’tis thou
Hast sold me to this novice, Angelina; and my heart
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
For when I am revenged upon my charm
And lawyers, I’ll live on. You, begone.
[Exit BRAD]
ANGELINA
Sir, I will take the custody of children;
If idle talk will once be necessary,
I’ll call my legal team: this mortal house I’ll ruin,
Do Brad Pitt what he can. Know, sir, that I
Will not be smashed by the press;
Nor once be moved by all the jokes
Of dull Jen Aniston. Shall they hoist me up
And show me to the shouting varletry
Of censuring Internet? Rather a ditch in Hollywood
Be gentle grave unto me! I’ve had my portion
Of distasteful gossip. See you in court.
THE PRESS
Unarm, my fellow journalists; the long day’s task is done,
And we must sleep.
Let people read the gossip and enjoy
The senseless information that concerns
Nobody but the famous spouses.
Does pay our labour richly, alas for them,
So fortunate for us.