DUCH. He call'd his father villain, and me strumpet, A word that I abhor to file[61] my lips with. AMB. That was not so well-done, brother. LUS. I am abus'd--I know there's no excuse can do me good. [_Aside._ VEN. 'Tis now good policy to be from sight; His vicious purpose to our sister's honour I cross'd beyond our thought. [_Aside._ HIP. You little dreamt his father slept here. VEN. O, 'twas far beyond me: But since it fell so--without frightful words, Would he had kill'd him, 'twould have eas'd our swords. DUKE. Be comforted, our duchess, he shall die. [_Dissemble a fright._[62] LUS. Where's this slave-pander now? out of mine eye, Guilty of this abuse. _Enter_ SPURIO _with his villains_. SPU. Y' are villains, fablers![63] You have knaves' chins and harlots' tongues; you lie; And I will damn you with one meal a day. 1ST SER. O good my lord! SPU. 'Sblood, you shall never sup. 2D SER. O, I beseech you, sir! SPU. To let my sword catch cold so long, and miss him! 1ST SER. Troth, my lord, 'twas his intent to meet there. SPU. 'Heart! he's yonder. Ha, what news here? is the day out o' th' socket, That it is noon at midnight? the court up! How comes the guard so saucy with his elbows? LUS. The bastard here? Nay, then the truth of my intent shall out; My lord and father, hear me. DUKE. Bear him hence. LUS. I can with loyalty excuse. DUKE. Excuse? to prison with the villain! Death shall not long lag after him. SPU. Good, i' faith: then 'tis not much amiss. LUS. Brothers, my best release lies on your tongues; I pray, persuade for me. AMB. It is our duties; make yourself sure of us. SUP. We'll sweat in pleading. LUS. And I may live to thank you. [_Exit._ AMB. No, thy death shall thank me better. SPU. He's gone; I'll after him, And know his trespass; seem to bear a part In all his ills, but with a puritan heart. [_Exit._ AMB. Now, brother, let our hate and love be woven So subtlely together, that in speaking one word for his life, We may make three for his death: The craftiest pleader gets most gold for breath. SUP. Set on, I'll not be far behind you, brother. DUKE. Is't possible a son should be disobedient as far as the sword? It is the highest: he can go no farther. AMB. My gracious lord, take pity-- DUKE. Pity, boys! AMB. Nay, we'd be loth to move your grace too much; We know the trespass is unpardonable, Black, wicked, and unnatural. SUP. In a son? O, monstrous! AMB. Yet, my lord, A duke's soft hand strokes the rough head of law, And makes it lie [more] smooth. DUKE. But my hand shall ne'er do't. AMB. That, as you please, my lord.