+De F.+ Now, innocence, guard thyself! the wolf is up: See, how mischief teems and quickens on their brow: Some black thing is spawning: night must be midwife to't: If we stay, my poniard will break loose. [_Exeunt._ +Duke.+ Who's that? +De C.+ Some of the duchess's servants, I believe, sir. +Duke.+ Your hand will lay a new foundation to a kingdom; And I am busy how to divide it with thee, when We can call it ours. +De C.+ 'Tis his last night with mankind; the poison, sir, Will do't so subtlely: whilst he but holds the Knife, the least warmth attracts, and so dispreads Itself through his blood and spirits. Not any Struggling for't with nature; his life steals from Him in a gentle slumber. +Duke.+ Grow in my bosom, till you spread to the first honours Of your wish. My fortune is too narrow for your Merits, to whom I owe it and all my power, brave friend. [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Steward+, +Butler+, +Cook+, and +Maids+._ +Stew.+ Come, my masters: the great ones shall not Have all to themselves: we'll have a civil Bout or two to get us a stomach to bedward, My sweethearts. +Cook.+ Noble master steward! +But.+ Brave master steward! +Cook.+ The fire of my respects shall ne'er go out unto you. +But.+ Nor mine be quench'd. +Stew.+ Here, cook, here's a bit for you to lick your lips at: And here's a clean napery for you, butler. [_Gives each a wench._ Take it. [_A dance._ +Stew.+ So, so; I am almost spent; every man to his function. [_Exeunt._ _Enter +King+, +Cardinal+, +Dessandro+, +Duke+, +Duchess+, attendants._ +King.+ The night begins to frown at our uncivil stay; And Hymen's tapers do burn out apace: Good night; you shall not stir a foot, Dessandro. +Duke.+ All the wishes of a bridal bed crown your wishes and embraces! +Card.+ And all the blessings of true joy. +Duke.+ To bed, to bed! [_Exeunt._ _Enter +De Loome+, +De Flame+, and +Cleara+._ +De L.+ You are as melancholy as [the] day, when sun sets: I hope you do not doubt my promise? +De F.+ No. +De L.+ Ye sha' not: I'll not leave you, till the grant be yours. Be confidant; and that's more than a courtier is bound To by his oath. Sir, where are you? Why, you were Living but e'en now; could speak--had sense, too: Ha' you seen anything against nature or stomach? Hum! sweetheart, has thy master any fits o' th' mother [_To +Cleara+._ Or falling-sickness? Pretty knave! 'tis pity This face was made for breeches. +De F.+ Ha! +De L.+ I am glad you are come to yourself again. +De F.+ You are pleasant.