+Claud.+ Your highness holds a merry opinion of us Poor widows. +De F.+ I say virgins are the ore: widows, The gold tried and refin'd. +Duke.+ A fair young lady and widow is A rich piece of stuff rumpled: an old one's A blotting-paper a man shall never Write anything on--she sinks so. Dessandro, your comment. +De F.+ Friend, you are dull o' th' sudden. +Cle.+ He is not well. +Claud.+ Not well, sir? +Des.+ Not well, madam. +Duke.+ Dull! Shall's to tennis? I have some pistolets Will pay your borrow'd time, Dessandro. +Des.+ Your pardon, sir: I am unfit to wait on you. My life hangs in a dew upon me; And I have drunk poison. +De F.+ Ha! A physician with all speed! Dessandro! +Cle.+ Dear sir! +Des.+ Cleara! Lend me thy hand: so-- I'm struck upon a rock. [_Swoons._ +Cle.+ He's dead; I shall not overtake him. +Duke.+ Look to the lady. +Claud.+ He swells like a stopp'd torrent or a teeming cloud; Have I no servants there? [_Carry him off._ +De F.+ What a sudden storm is fallen? +Duke.+ How fares the lady? +Claud.+ Madam! +Cle.+ As you are tender-natur'd, let no hand Close his eyes but mine: I am come back Thus far to take my farewell on his cold lip. [_+De Flame+ returns._ +De F.+ Sister, let thy warm blood flow back: Thy Dessandro lives, my girl! +Cle.+ O, may I not see him? +De F.+ You shall. [_Exeunt._ Duke. Give me leave to make this opportunity happy On your hand. How! Not vouchsafe it? [_+Duchess+ goes off._ What a tyranny shot from her scornful eye! Where have I lost myself and her? There's a cross and peevish genius haunts my hopes; A black and envious cloud; and I must get above it. Not kiss your hand? Is your blood surfeited? I'll quit This scorn; indeed I will, coy madam! Thou, that are lord of my proud horoscope; Great soul of mysteries, kindle my brain With thy immortal fires! That if I fall, my name may rise divine: So Cæsar's glory set, and so set mine! [_Exit._ _Enter +Silliman+, a bottle tied in a riband to his pocket._ +Sil.+ Brave canary, intelligent canary, That does refresh our weak and mortal bodies! I will have thee canonis'd Saint Canary at My own charge, and call my eldest son Canary. Yet for a man to love thee at His own cost is damnable, very damnable; And I defy it. And Siss is the blithest lass in our town, For she sells ale by the pound and the dozen; Ale! Hang ale! _Enter a +Messenger+._ +Mes.+ By your worship's leave, I would speak with Signior Silliman, the Duchess's steward, an't like ye. +Sil.+ Wou'd you speak with Signior Silliman, an't like ye?