[_Aside._ ALER. Brave-spirited lord! [_Aside._ FUL. The mirror of a soldier! [_Aside._ GOV. O, are you mov'd, sir? has the deserved name Of traitor prick'd you? ANT. Deserv'd? GOV. Yes. MACH. Yes. ANT. Machiavel, thou liest; hadst thou a heart Of harden'd steel, my powerful arm Should pierce it. [_They fight all in a confused manner_: ANTONIO _kills the_ GOVERNOR, MACHIAVEL _falls_. ALER. The governor Slain by Antonio's hand? FUL. No, by the hand of justice; fly, fly, my lord! ALER. Send for a chirurgeon to dress Count Machiavel: He must be now our governor; the king Signed it in the dead governor's commission. [_Exeunt._ ANT. Now I repent too late my rash contempt: The horror of a murtherer will still Follow my guilty thoughts, fly where I will. [_Exit_ ANTONIO. MACH. I'm wounded; else, coward Antonio, Thou shouldst not fly from my revengeful arm: But may my curses fall upon thy head, Heavy as thunder! may'st thou die Burthen'd with ulcerous sins, whose very weight May sink thee down to hell, Beneath the reach of smooth-fac'd mercy's arm! [_A shout within, crying_ ANTONIO. Confusion choke your rash officious throats! And may that breath that speaks his loathed name Beget a plague, whose hot infectious air May scald you up to blisters, which foretel A purge of life! Up, Machiavel, Thou hast thy will, howe'er cross fate Divert the people's hearts; they must perforce Sue to that shrine our liking shall erect. The governor is dead, Antonio's lost To anything but death; 'tis our glad fate To gripe the staff of what we look'd for--state. My blood's ambitious, and runs through my veins, Like nimble water through a leaden pipe Up to some barren mountain. I must have more; All wealth, in my thoughts, to a crown is poor. _Enter_ GIOVANNO, EVADNE, _and_ NURSE. GIO. 'Tis a neat gown, and fashionable, madam; is't not, love? NUR. Upon my virginity, wonderful handsome: dear, when we are married, I'll have such a one; shall I not, chicken, ha? GIO. What else, kind nurse? NUR. Truly you tailors are the most sanctified members of a kingdom: how many crooked and untoward bodies have you set upright, that they go now so straight in their lives and conversation, as the proudest on them all? GIO. That's certain, none prouder. EVAD. How mean you, sir? GIO. Faith, madam, your crooked movables in artificial bodies, that rectify the deformity of nature's overplus, as bunching backs: or scarcity, as scanty shoulders--are the proudest creatures; you shall have them jet it with an undaunted boldness; for the truth is, what they want in substance they have in air: they will scold the tailor out of his art, and impute the defect of nature to his want of skill, though his labour make her appearance pride-worthy. NUR. Well said, my bird's-nye, stand for the credit of tailors whilst thou livest; wilt thou not, chuck? Ha, say'st thou, my dear? GIO. I were ungrateful else.