Fran. Dearly, sir, I thank you: If any ask for me at court, report You have left me in the company of knaves. [Exit Monticelso. I gather now by this, some cunning fellow That 's my lord's officer, and that lately skipp'd From a clerk's desk up to a justice' chair, Hath made this knavish summons, and intends, As th' Irish rebels wont were to sell heads, So to make prize of these. And thus it happens: Your poor rogues pay for 't, which have not the means To present bribe in fist; the rest o' th' band Are razed out of the knaves' record; or else My lord he winks at them with easy will; His man grows rich, the knaves are the knaves still. But to the use I 'll make of it; it shall serve To point me out a list of murderers, Agents for my villany. Did I want Ten leash of courtesans, it would furnish me; Nay, laundress three armies. That in so little paper Should lie th' undoing of so many men! 'Tis not so big as twenty declarations. See the corrupted use some make of books: Divinity, wrested by some factious blood, Draws swords, swells battles, and o'erthrows all good. To fashion my revenge more seriously, Let me remember my dear sister's face: Call for her picture? no, I 'll close mine eyes, And in a melancholic thought I 'll frame [Enter Isabella's Ghost. Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha' 't--how strong Imagination works! how she can frame Things which are not! methinks she stands afore me, And by the quick idea of my mind, Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture. Thought, as a subtle juggler, makes us deem Things supernatural, which have cause Common as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy. How cam'st thou by thy death?--how idle am I To question mine own idleness!--did ever Man dream awake till now?--remove this object; Out of my brain with 't: what have I to do With tombs, or death-beds, funerals, or tears, That have to meditate upon revenge? [Exit Ghost. So, now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story. Statesmen think often they see stranger sights Than madmen. Come, to this weighty business. My tragedy must have some idle mirth in 't, Else it will never pass. I am in love, In love with Corombona; and my suit Thus halts to her in verse.-- [He writes. I have done it rarely: Oh, the fate of princes! I am so us'd to frequent flattery, That, being alone, I now flatter myself: But it will serve; 'tis seal'd. [Enter servant.] Bear this To the House of Convertites, and watch your leisure To give it to the hands of Corombona, Or to the Matron, when some followers Of Brachiano may be by. Away! [Exit Servant. He that deals all by strength, his wit is shallow; When a man's head goes through, each limb will follow.