VEN. For since my worthy father's funeral, My life's unnatural[13] to me, even compell'd; As if I liv'd now, when I should be dead. GRA. Indeed, he was a worthy gentleman, Had his estate been fellow to his mind. VEN. The duke did much deject him. GRA. Much? VEN. Too much: And though disgrace oft smother'd in his spirit, When it would mount, surely I think he died Of discontent, the noble man's consumption. GRA. Most sure he did. VEN. Did he? 'lack! you know all: You were his midnight secretary. GRA. No, He was too wise to trust me with his thoughts. VEN. I' faith, then, father, thou wast wise indeed; "Wives are but made to go to bed and feed." Come, mother, sister: you'll bring me onward,[14] brother? HIP. I will. VEN. I'll quickly turn into another. [_Aside. Exeunt._ _Enter the old_ DUKE, LUSURIOSO _his son, the_ DUCHESS: _the Bastard, the Duchess's two_ _sons_ AMBITIOSO _and_ SUPERVACUO; _the third,_ _her youngest, brought out with Officers for the_ _rape. Two_ JUDGES. DUKE. Duchess, it is your youngest son, we're sorry, His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honour, And stain'd our honours; Thrown ink upon the forehead of our state; Which envious spirits will dip their pens into After our death; and blot us in our tombs: For that which would seem treason in our lives Is laughter, when we're dead. Who dares now whisper, That dares not then speak out, and e'en proclaim With loud words and broad pens our closest shame? JUDGE. Your grace hath spoke like to your silver years, Full of confirmed gravity; for what is it to have A flattering false insculption[15] on a tomb, And in men's hearts reproach? the bowell'd corpse May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I speak) The faults of great men through their sear-cloths break. DUKE. They do; we're sorry for't: it is our fate To live in fear, and die to live in hate. I leave him to your sentence; doom him, lords-- The fact is great--whilst I sit by and sigh. DUCH. My gracious lord, I pray be merciful: Although his trespass far exceed his years, Think him to be your own, as I am yours; Call him not son-in-law: the law, I fear, Will fall too soon upon his name and him: Temper his fault with pity. LUS. Good my lord, Then 'twill not taste so bitter and unpleasant Upon the judges' palate; for offences, Gilt o'er with mercy, show like fairest women, Good only for their beauties, which wash'd off, No sin is uglier.[16] AMB. I beseech your grace, Be soft and mild; let not relentless law Look with an iron forehead on our brother.