+1st T.+ It was ever my condition; I care not who knows it; and yet I never scathed the least sucking child that begs his bread; but little does another man know where the king's shoe wrings him, but those that wear it, as my mother would often say; and she lived long enough to know it. +3d T.+ Nay, that's certain; the king's but a man, as we three are; no more is the queen, if you go to that. Did you never hear of my uncle's observations? He's but a poor knave (as they call him), but such a knave as cares neither for king nor kæsar, the least on 'em. +1st T.+ Then he may be hanged, neighbour Palmer. +3d T.+ If he be, he's not the first that has been hanged for treason, I hope. [_Exeunt._ _Enter the +Duke+ and +Claudilla+._ +Duke.+ That frown was shot with pretty tyranny From your brow; but this kiss shall sacrifice Me to my Claudilla's bosom. +Claud.+ You'll sully your honour in't; widows are but rumpled stuff. +Duke.+ That again! By all my hopes and by thyself, the next and greatest-- +Claud.+ Your brother's crown's betwixt us. +Duke.+ I did [that] but to sharp De Flame into some Expression of his wit and love. +Claud.+ Alas! he sighs all. +Duke.+ And, like some crude chaplain, spits most Of his mind. +Claud.+ Yet the tame dove can tire me sometimes With penn'd speeches, when we're alone, and flatter. I'm resolv'd to bestow him on my woman. +Duke.+ Now he can come to hand. Ha, ha, thinking men never love heartily, unless they be dank powder. +Claud.+ His courtship is like thick embroidery upon Slight stuff. I must confess, I never Lov'd the man, only as a rich gown out of Fashion, for a day's change sometimes at home, When I take physic. +Duke.+ You may wear him as you please, and to what Purpose; his honest nature was meant you so; But Dessandro is the man of men (I must confess), That I could wish most near you now. +Claud.+ Dessandro! +Duke.+ And suddenly, before your honour blush too palpably: I have discovered him and his devotions. +Claud.+ Then your brains were in his plot. +Duke.+ 'Twas his own. +Claud.+ Stol'n from some romance or play! but For De Flame---- +Duke.+ One wheel will move another to the period. +Claud.+ Methinks, his soft and easy spirit should be The fitter engine, and more pliant to your aim. +Duke.+ He has too much of Venus in his mixture; all his Desires would be at home still in the circle of those Eyes: the other is all fire, and thinks that fame Too cheap, that's found so near; and there will Want such men abroad. +Claud.+ But where's my honour, duke? +Duke.+ Lock'd in my heart and cares: the king must die, Claudilla, to smoothe the way, and lift us to our wishes. +Claud.+ That still is talk'd on.