Flam. Not a scruple.

The Pope lies on his death-bed, and their heads Are troubled now with other business Than guarding of a lady.

Enter Servant

Servant. Yonder 's Flamineo in conference With the Matrona.--Let me speak with you: I would entreat you to deliver for me This letter to the fair Vittoria.

Matron. I shall, sir.

Enter Brachiano

Servant. With all care and secrecy; Hereafter you shall know me, and receive Thanks for this courtesy. [Exit.

Flam. How now? what 's that?

Matron. A letter.

Flam. To my sister? I 'll see 't deliver'd.

Brach. What 's that you read, Flamineo?

Flam. Look.

Brach. Ha! 'To the most unfortunate, his best respected Vittoria'.

Who was the messenger?

Flam. I know not.

Brach. No! who sent it?

Flam. Ud's foot! you speak as if a man Should know what fowl is coffin'd in a bak'd meat Afore you cut it up.

Brach. I 'll open 't, were 't her heart. What 's here subscrib'd!

Florence! this juggling is gross and palpable.

I have found out the conveyance. Read it, read it.

Flam. [Reads the letter.] "Your tears I 'll turn to triumphs, be but mine; Your prop is fallen: I pity, that a vine Which princes heretofore have long'd to gather, Wanting supporters, now should fade and wither."

Wine, i' faith, my lord, with lees would serve his turn.

"Your sad imprisonment I 'll soon uncharm, And with a princely uncontrolled arm Lead you to Florence, where my love and care Shall hang your wishes in my silver hair."

A halter on his strange equivocation!

"Nor for my years return me the sad willow; Who prefer blossoms before fruit that 's mellow?"

Rotten, on my knowledge, with lying too long i' th' bedstraw.

"And all the lines of age this line convinces; The G.o.ds never wax old, no more do princes."

A pox on 't, tear it; let 's have no more atheists, for G.o.d's sake.

Brach. Ud's death! I 'll cut her into atomies, And let th' irregular north wind sweep her up, And blow her int' his nostrils: where 's this wh.o.r.e?

Flam. What? what do you call her?

Brach. Oh, I could be mad!

Prevent the curs'd disease she 'll bring me to, And tear my hair off. Where 's this changeable stuff?

Flam. O'er head and ears in water, I a.s.sure you; She is not for your wearing.

Brach. In, you pander!

Flam. What, me, my lord? am I your dog?

Brach. A bloodhound: do you brave, do you stand me?

Flam. Stand you! let those that have diseases run; I need no plasters.

Brach. Would you be kick'd?

Flam. Would you have your neck broke?

I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia; My shins must be kept whole.

Brach. Do you know me?

Flam. Oh, my lord, methodically!

As in this world there are degrees of evils, So in this world there are degrees of devils.