VEN.[8] Duke! royal lecher! go, grey-hair'd adultery! And thou his son, as impious steep'd as he: And thou his bastard, true begot in evil: And thou his duchess, that will do with devil: Four exc'llent characters! O, that marrowless age Should stuff the hollow bones with damn'd desires! And, 'stead of heat, kindle infernal fires Within the spendthrift veins of a dry duke, A parch'd and juiceless luxur.[9] O God! one, That has scarce blood enough to live upon; And he to riot it, like a son and heir! O, the thought of that Turns my abused heart-strings into fret. Thou sallow picture of my poison'd love, [_Views the skull in his hand._ My study's ornament, thou shell of death, Once the bright face of my betrothed lady, When life and beauty naturally fill'd out These ragged imperfections; When two heaven-pointed diamonds were set In those unsightly rings--then 'twas a face So far beyond the artificial shine Of any woman's bought complexion, That the uprightest man (if such there be, That sin but seven times a day) broke custom, And made up eight with looking after her. O, she was able to ha' made a usurer's son Melt all his patrimony in a kiss; And what his father [in] fifty years told, To have consum'd, and yet his suit been cold. But, O accursed palace! Thee, when thou wert apparell'd in thy flesh, The old duke poison'd, Because thy purer part would not consent Unto his palsied[10] lust; for old men lustful Do show like young men angry: eager, violent, Outbid, [be]like, their limited performances. O, 'ware an old man hot and vicious! "Age, as in gold, in lust is covetous." Vengeance, thou murder's quit-rent, and whereby Thou show'st thyself tenant to tragedy; O, keep thy day, hour, minute, I beseech, For those thou hast determin'd. Hum! whoe'er knew Murder unpaid? faith, give revenge her due, Sh' has kept touch hitherto: be merry, merry, Advance thee, O thou terror to fat folks! To have their costly three-pil'd flesh worn off As bare as this; for banquets, ease, and laughter Can make great men, as greatness goes by clay; But wise men little are more great than they. _Enter_ HIPPOLITO. HIP. Still sighing o'er death's vizard? VEN. Brother, welcome! What comfort bring'st thou? how go things at court? HIP. In silk and silver, brother: never braver. VEN. Puh! Thou play'st upon my meaning. Prythee, say, Has that bald madman, opportunity, Yet thought upon's? speak, are we happy yet? Thy wrongs and mine are for one scabbard fit. HIP. It may prove happiness. VEN. What is't may prove? Give me to taste. HIP. Give me your hearing, then. You know my place at court?