VEN. My lov'd lord! O, shall I kill him o' th' wrong side now? no! Sword, thou wast never a backbiter yet. I'll pierce him to his face; he shall die looking upon me. Thy veins are swell'd with lust, this shall unfill 'em. Great men were gods, if beggars could not kill 'em. Forgive me, heaven, to call my mother wicked! O, lessen not my days upon the earth,[55] I cannot honour her. By this, I fear me, Her tongue has turn'd my sister into use. I was a villain not to be forsworn To this our lecherous hope, the duke's son; For lawyers, merchants, some divines, and all, Count beneficial perjury a sin small. It shall go hard yet, but I'll guard her honour, And keep the ports sure. _Enter_ HIPPOLITO. HIP. Brother, how goes the world? I would know news of you. But I have news to tell you. VEN. What, in the name of knavery? HIP. Knavery, faith; This vicious old duke's worthily abused, The pen of his bastard writes him cuckold? VEN. His bastard? HIP. Pray, believe it; he and the duchess By night meet in their linen;[56] they have been seen By stair-foot panders. VEN. O, sin foul and deep! Great faults are wink'd at, when the duke's asleep. See, see, here comes the Spurio. HIP. Monstrous luxur! VEN. Unbrac'd! two of his valiant bawds with him! O, there's a wicked whisper; hell's in his ear. Stay, let's observe his passage-- _Enter_ SPURIO _and Servants_. SPU. O, but are you sure on't? SER. My lord, most sure on't; for 'twas spoke by one, That is most inward with the duke's son's lust, That he intends within this hour to steal Unto Hippolito's sister, whose chaste life The mother has corrupted for his use. SPU. Sweet word! sweet occasion! faith, then, brother, I'll disinherit you in as short time, As I was when I was begot in haste. I'll damn you at your pleasure: precious deed! After your lust, O, 'twill be fine to bleed. Come, let our passing out be soft and wary. [_Exeunt._ VEN. Mark! there, there, that step! now to the duchess-- This their second meeting writes the duke cuckold With new additions--his horns newly reviv'd. Night! thou that look'st like funeral heralds' fees, Torn down betimes i' th' morning, thou hang'st fitly To grace those sins that have no grace at all. Now 'tis full sea abed over the world: There's juggling of all sides; some that were maids E'en at sunset, are now perhaps i' th' toll-book.[57] This woman in immodest thin apparel Lets in her friend by water; here a dame Cunning nails leather hinges to a door, To avoid proclamation, Now cuckolds are coining, apace, apace, apace, apace! And careful sisters spin that thread i' th' night, That does maintain them and their bawds i' th' day.