Lodo. This was Brachiano's pander; and 'tis strange That in such open, and apparent guilt Of his adulterous sister, he dare utter So scandalous a passion. I must wind him. Re-enter Flamineo. Flam. How dares this banish'd count return to Rome, His pardon not yet purchas'd! I have heard The deceased duchess gave him pension, And that he came along from Padua I' th' train of the young prince. There 's somewhat in 't: Physicians, that cure poisons, still do work With counter-poisons. Marc. Mark this strange encounter. Flam. The god of melancholy turn thy gall to poison, And let the stigmatic wrinkles in thy face, Like to the boisterous waves in a rough tide, One still overtake another. Lodo. I do thank thee, And I do wish ingeniously for thy sake, The dog-days all year long. Flam. How croaks the raven? Is our good duchess dead? Lodo. Dead. Flam. O fate! Misfortune comes like the coroner's business Huddle upon huddle. Lodo. Shalt thou and I join housekeeping? Flam. Yes, content: Let 's be unsociably sociable. Lodo. Sit some three days together, and discourse? Flam. Only with making faces; Lie in our clothes. Lodo. With faggots for our pillows. Flam. And be lousy. Lodo. In taffeta linings, that 's genteel melancholy; Sleep all day. Flam. Yes; and, like your melancholic hare, Feed after midnight. [Enter Antonelli and Gasparo. We are observed: see how yon couple grieve. Lodo. What a strange creature is a laughing fool! As if man were created to no use But only to show his teeth. Flam. I 'll tell thee what, It would do well instead of looking-glasses, To set one's face each morning by a saucer Of a witch's congeal'd blood. Lodo. Precious rogue! We'll never part. Flam. Never, till the beggary of courtiers, The discontent of churchmen, want of soldiers, And all the creatures that hang manacled, Worse than strappadoed, on the lowest felly Of fortune's wheel, be taught, in our two lives, To scorn that world which life of means deprives. Ant. My lord, I bring good news. The Pope, on 's death bed, At th' earnest suit of the great Duke of Florence, Hath sign'd your pardon, and restor'd unto you---- Lodo. I thank you for your news. Look up again, Flamineo, see my pardon. Flam. Why do you laugh? There was no such condition in our covenant. Lodo. Why? Flam. You shall not seem a happier man than I: You know our vow, sir; if you will be merry, Do it i' th' like posture, as if some great man Sat while his enemy were executed: Though it be very lechery unto thee, Do 't with a crabbed politician's face. Lodo. Your sister is a damnable whore. Flam. Ha! Lodo. Look you, I spake that laughing. Flam. Dost ever think to speak again? Lodo. Do you hear? Wilt sell me forty ounces of her blood To water a mandrake?