You 're a great duke, I your poor secretary.

I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian sallet, daily.

Brach. Pander, ply your convoy, and leave your prating.

Flam. All your kindness to me, is like that miserable courtesy of Polyphemus to Ulysses; you reserve me to be devoured last: you would dig turfs out of my grave to feed your larks; that would be music to you. Come, I 'll lead you to her.

Brach. Do you face me?

Flam. Oh, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool.

Enter Vittoria to Brachiano and Flamineo

Brach. Can you read, mistress? look upon that letter: There are no characters, nor hieroglyphics.

You need no comment; I am grown your receiver.

G.o.d's precious! you shall be a brave great lady, A stately and advanced wh.o.r.e.

Vit. Say, sir?

Brach. Come, come, let 's see your cabinet, discover Your treasury of love-letters. Death and furies!

I 'll see them all.

Vit. Sir, upon my soul, I have not any. Whence was this directed?

Brach. Confusion on your politic ignorance!

You are reclaim'd, are you? I 'll give you the bells, And let you fly to the devil.

Flam. Ware hawk, my lord.

Vit. Florence! this is some treacherous plot, my lord; To me he ne'er was lovely, I protest, So much as in my sleep.

Brach. Right! there are plots.

Your beauty! Oh, ten thousand curses on 't!

How long have I beheld the devil in crystal!

Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice, With music, and with fatal yokes of flowers, To my eternal ruin. Woman to man Is either a G.o.d, or a wolf.

Vit. My lord----

Brach. Away!

We 'll be as differing as two adamants, The one shall shun the other. What! dost weep?

Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade, Ye 'd furnish all the Irish funerals With howling past wild Irish.

Flam. Fie, my lord!

Brach. That hand, that cursed hand, which I have wearied With doting kisses!--Oh, my sweetest d.u.c.h.ess, How lovely art thou now!--My loose thoughts Scatter like quicksilver: I was bewitch'd; For all the world speaks ill of thee.

Vit. No matter; I 'll live so now, I 'll make that world recant, And change her speeches. You did name your d.u.c.h.ess.

Brach. Whose death G.o.d pardon!

Vit. Whose death G.o.d revenge On thee, most G.o.dless duke!

Flam. Now for two whirlwinds.

Vit. What have I gain'd by thee, but infamy?

Thou hast stain'd the spotless honour of my house, And frighted thence n.o.ble society: Like those, which sick o' th' palsy, and retain Ill-scenting foxes 'bout them, are still shunn'd By those of choicer nostrils. What do you call this house?

Is this your palace? did not the judge style it A house of penitent wh.o.r.es? who sent me to it?

To this incontinent college? is 't not you?

Is 't not your high preferment? go, go, brag How many ladies you have undone, like me.

Fare you well, sir; let me hear no more of you!

I had a limb corrupted to an ulcer, But I have cut it off; and now I 'll go Weeping to heaven on crutches. For your gifts, I will return them all, and I do wish That I could make you full executor To all my sins. O that I could toss myself Into a grave as quickly! for all thou art worth I 'll not shed one tear more--I 'll burst first.

[She throws herself upon a bed.

Brach. I have drunk Lethe: Vittoria!

My dearest happiness! Vittoria!

What do you ail, my love? why do you weep?

Vit. Yes, I now weep poniards, do you see?

Brach. Are not those matchless eyes mine?

Vit. I had rather They were not matches.