+Bravo.+ Indeed, boy, thou may'st question it; for, and they were to perform again, they would hardly be done. What will this age come to? Where be those stirring humours that were wont to trouble the world? Peace, I think, will o'er-spread them all like a gangrene, and men will die with a lethargy; there's no malice extant, no jealousies, no employment to set wickedness awork! 'tis never a dead time with me but when there's nobody to kill. +Boy.+ That's a miserable extremity indeed, sir. +Bravo.+ Leave me, boy, to my meditations. [_Exit +Boy+_ _Enter +Mocinigo+._ Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer of thee for wholesome policy and good counsel. Thou took'st pains to chalk men out the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit, and no man has the grace to follow thee; the age is unthankful, thy principles are quite forsaken and worn out of memory. +Moc.+ There's a fellow walks melancholy, and that's commonly a passion apt to entertain any mischief; discontent and honesty seldom harbour together. How scurvily he looks, like one of the devil's factors! I'll tempt him. By your leave, sir. +Bravo.+ Ha! +Moc.+ No hurt, good sir; be not so furious, I beseech you. +Bravo.+ What are you? +Moc.+ I am bold to disturb you, and would fain communicate a business, if you had the patience to hear me. +Bravo.+ Speak, what is't? +Moc.+ You seem a man upon whom fortune, perhaps, has not cast so favourable an aspect as you deserve. +Bravo.+ Can you win her to look better? +Moc.+ Though not her, yet, perhaps, a servant of hers, that shall be as gracious to you and as profitable. +Bravo.+ What's she? +Moc.+ It may be you want money: there is a way to purchase it, if you have the heart. +Bravo.+ The heart! Hast thou the heart to speak, nay to conceive, what I dare not undertake? +Moc.+ A fit instrument for my purpose! How luckily has fortune brought me to him! [_Aside._] Do you hear, sir, 'tis but the slight killing of a man, or so--no more. +Bravo.+ Is that all? +Moc.+ Is that nothing? +Bravo.+ Some queasy stomach might turn, perhaps, at such a motion; but I am more resolved, better hardened. What is he? For I have my several rates, salaries for blood: for a lord, so much; for a knight, so much; a gentleman, so much; a peasant, so much; a stranger, so much, and a native, so much. +Moc.+ Nay, he is a gentleman, and a citizen of Venice. +Bravo.+ Let him be what he will, and we can agree: it has been a foolish ambition heretofore to save them, and men were rewarded for it with garlands;[326] but I had rather destroy one or two of them: they multiply too fast.