Lodo. T' have poison'd his prayer-book, or a pair of beads, The pummel of his saddle, his looking-gla.s.s, Or th' handle of his racket,--O, that, that!

That while he had been bandying at tennis, He might have sworn himself to h.e.l.l, and strook His soul into the hazard! Oh, my lord, I would have our plot be ingenious, And have it hereafter recorded for example, Rather than borrow example.

Fran. There 's no way More speeding that this thought on.

Lodo. On, then.

Fran. And yet methinks that this revenge is poor, Because it steals upon him like a thief: To have ta'en him by the casque in a pitch'd field, Led him to Florence----

Lodo. It had been rare: and there Have crown'd him with a wreath of stinking garlic, T' have shown the sharpness of his government, And rankness of his l.u.s.t. Flamineo comes.

[Exeunt Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo.

Enter Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche

Marc. Why doth this devil haunt you, say?

Flam. I know not: For by this light, I do not conjure for her.

'Tis not so great a cunning as men think, To raise the devil; for here 's one up already; The greatest cunning were to lay him down.

Marc. She is your shame.

Flam. I pray thee pardon her.

In faith, you see, women are like to burs, Where their affection throws them, there they 'll stick.

Zan. That is my countryman, a goodly person; When he 's at leisure, I 'll discourse with him In our own language.

Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche.

How is 't, brave soldier? Oh, that I had seen Some of your iron days! I pray relate Some of your service to us.

Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a stinking breath.

Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from you.

Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a show, and bear out weather equally.

Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would tell them stories.

Marc. I have been a soldier too.

Fran. How have you thrived?

Marc. Faith, poorly.

Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected.

As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who, if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies.

Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion.

Fran. And thou mayest do the devil knows what villainy.

Flam. And safely.

Fran. Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons, though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven, they go to the pot for 't.

Flam. I will now give you some politic instruction. The duke says he will give you pension; that 's but bare promise; get it under his hand.

For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for three or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs, and fresh plasters; but after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserable courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one three-quarters dead o' th' rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again to endure more dog-days.

[Exit Francisco. Enter Hortensio, a young Lord, Zanche, and two more.

How now, gallants? what, are they ready for the barriers?

Young Lord. Yes: the lords are putting on their armour.

Hort. What 's he?

Flam. A new upstart; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew him, since he came to th' court, smell worse of sweat than an under tennis-court keeper.

Hort. Look you, yonder 's your sweet mistress.

Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I 'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villainy. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears; but for fear of her turning upon me, and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil.