+Duke.+ I am betrayed and lost! Could'st be in love with that saint life, for one Poor minute's smile, to betray it to ignominy and law? I could trample on thy skull, until thy reeking Brain sparkled about the dust. See how busily They contract their dusky brows! Consult things Safely, and let some reverend statute be ordained In honour of all cowards. [_Aside._] De Castro! for this good Service know, 'twas I that laid thy father's head Upon the block: complotted with the Portuguese To make him guilty to the King: and envying that He spread with so much shadow in the state, by a close Faction rend'red him odious to the people: an engine, I knew could not fail. I hurried thee to the Duchess's Wanton bed, Dessandro, knowing De Flame's high Blood would quit the debt I owed thee---- +Des.+ He's proud all mischief can call him patron. +Duke.+ Nor had I shar'd the pleasure of a kiss to you Or him, but that our purpose needs would have it so. +De F.+ Sir! +Duke.+ The language is plain and true. +De F.+ Then Claudilla was your court-mistress, Duke?-- 'Twere profanation to say whore! +Duke.+ Young lord, I can forgive that language In a suffering man. +De F.+ Forgive it! +Duke.+ Forgive it; and had De Flame himself Enjoy'd her bed, and reap'd the scattered minutes Of our love, he must have found another gloss more Safe and honourable. +De F.+ Must! What saw you in me did promise So tame a thing, as to feed on your high scraps? Glorious mischief! +Des.+ My lord, I beg your mercy; and to deserve it Will weep the remnant of this unworthy life Unto Cleara's name. +De F.+ All mankind has my peaceful wish, but this Black speckled serpent, whose load doth make The earth to groan and sweat. +Duke.+ My fair Claudilla, methinks I see thee Lovely in that ghastly trim of death, while Yet thy soul was struggling through thy cruel Wounds. +De F.+ The day begins to frown and creep into Eternal night: we'll bed together in one grave, Cleara. Castile shall hide us in a golden heap, and name me With her patriots for taking this foul monster From her bosom. +Duke.+ I'll find thee in the myrtle groves below, And leave a story that shall tell the world, How much I lov'd thee. [_They stab each other._ +King.+ Desperate atheists! +Duke.+ You were beforehand, sir. +De F.+ You've overtaken me: the world is hid in a Cloud, and shrinks to chaos. O, whither Must I wander in this mist? So, so-- I feel thee glide away, and leave me sunk Upon a quicksand. [_Expirat._ +King.+ What a thirst of blood burnt up their hearts, That they must quench it in their own?