+Slave.+ Good sir, 'tis madness here to stand him. +Phil.+ 'Sfoot, kicked! Pray that we meet no more again, sir: still keep heaven about you.[153] +Abs.+ Whate'er thou art, a good man still go with thee. +Ant.+ Will you bestow a cast of your professions? +Mor.+ We are vanished, sir. +Tim.+ This 'tis to dream of rotten glasses, Morbo. +Abs.+ O, what shall become of me? In his eye murder and lust contend. +Ant.+ Nay, fly not, you sweet, I am not angry with you; indeed, I am not. Do you know me? +Abs.+ Yes, sir, report hath given intelligence You are the prince, the duke's son. +Ant.+ Both in one. +Abs.+ Report, sure, Spoke but her native language: you are none of either. +Ant.+ How? +Abs.+ Were you the prince, you would not, sure, be slav'd To your blood's passion. I do crave your pardon For my rough language: truth hath a forehead free, And in the tow'r of her integrity Sits an unvanquish'd virgin. Can you imagine 'Twill appear possible you are the prince? Why, when you set your foot first in this house, You crush'd obedient duty unto death, And even then fell from you your respect. Honour is like a goodly old house, which If we repair not still with virtue's hand, Like a citadel being madly rais'd on sand, It falls, is swallow'd, and not found [again]. +Ant.+ If you rail upon the place, prythee, How cam'st thou hither? +Abs.+ By treacherous intelligence. Honest men so In the way ignorant, through thieves' purlieus go. Are you [the] son to such a noble father? [And would you] send him to's grave then, Like a white almond-tree, full of glad days, With joy that he begot so good a son. O sir, methinks I see sweet majesty Sit with a mourning sad face full of sorrows, To see you in this place. This is a cave Of scorpions and of dragons. O, turn back: Toads here engender; 'tis the steam of death: The very air poisons a good man's breath. +Ant.+ Within there! _Enter +Timpania+ and +Morbo+._ +Mor.+ Sir. +Ant.+ Is my caroch at door? +Tim.+ And your horses too, sir. Ye found her pliant? +Ant.+ Y' are rotten hospitals hung with greasy satin! +Tim.+ Ah! +Mor.+ Came this nice piece from Naples, with a pox to her? +Tim.+ And she has not Neapolitanised him, I'll be flea'd for't. [_Exeunt +Bawd+ and +Pander+._ +Ant.+ Let me borrow goodness from thy lip. Farewell. Here's a new wonder: I have met heaven in hell. [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Venice+, +Verona+, +Lodovico+, +Pandulpho+, +Jaspro+._ +Ver.+ Is this your chaste, religious lady?