Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war, All prisoners that I take, I will set free, Without their ransom. Fran. Ha! without their ransom! How then will you reward your soldiers, That took those prisoners for you? Giov. Thus, my lord: I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widows That falls that year. Fran. Why then, the next year following, You 'll have no men to go with you to war. Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war, And then the men will follow. Mont. Witty prince! Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast. Come, you and I are friends. Brach. Most wishedly: Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set, Knit the more strongly. Fran. Call Camillo hither.-- You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count Lodowick Is turn'd a pirate? Brach. Yes. Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess. We now will leave you, and expect from you Nothing but kind entreaty. Brach. You have charm'd me. [Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni. Enter Isabella You are in health, we see. Isab. And above health, To see my lord well. Brach. So: I wonder much What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome. Isab. Devotion, my lord. Brach. Devotion! Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin? Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleep will be the sounder. Brach. Take your chamber. Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry! Doth not my absence from you, now two months, Merit one kiss? Brach. I do not use to kiss: If that will dispossess your jealousy, I 'll swear it to you. Isab. O, my loved lord, I do not come to chide: my jealousy! I am to learn what that Italian means. You are as welcome to these longing arms, As I to you a virgin. Brach. Oh, your breath! Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic, The plague is in them! Isab. You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected cassia, or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd. My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns Show in a helmet lovely; but on me, In such a peaceful interview, methinks They are too roughly knit. Brach. O dissemblance! Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt The trick of impudent baseness to complain Unto your kindred? Isab. Never, my dear lord. Brach. Must I be hunted out? or was 't your trick To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome, That must supply our discontinuance? Isab. Pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death Turn to your ancient pity, though not love.