The engine for my business, bold Count Lodowick; 'Tis gold must such an instrument procure, With empty fist no man doth falcons lure. Brachiano, I am now fit for thy encounter: Like the wild Irish, I 'll ne'er think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head, Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. [Exit. SCENE II Enter the Matron, and Flamineo Matron. Should it be known the duke hath such recourse To your imprison'd sister, I were like T' incur much damage by it. Flam. Not a scruple. The Pope lies on his death-bed, and their heads Are troubled now with other business Than guarding of a lady. Enter Servant Servant. Yonder 's Flamineo in conference With the Matrona.--Let me speak with you: I would entreat you to deliver for me This letter to the fair Vittoria. Matron. I shall, sir. Enter Brachiano Servant. With all care and secrecy; Hereafter you shall know me, and receive Thanks for this courtesy. [Exit. Flam. How now? what 's that? Matron. A letter. Flam. To my sister? I 'll see 't deliver'd. Brach. What 's that you read, Flamineo? Flam. Look. Brach. Ha! 'To the most unfortunate, his best respected Vittoria'. Who was the messenger? Flam. I know not. Brach. No! who sent it? Flam. Ud's foot! you speak as if a man Should know what fowl is coffin'd in a bak'd meat Afore you cut it up. Brach. I 'll open 't, were 't her heart. What 's here subscrib'd! Florence! this juggling is gross and palpable. I have found out the conveyance. Read it, read it. Flam. [Reads the letter.] "Your tears I 'll turn to triumphs, be but mine; Your prop is fallen: I pity, that a vine Which princes heretofore have long'd to gather, Wanting supporters, now should fade and wither." Wine, i' faith, my lord, with lees would serve his turn. "Your sad imprisonment I 'll soon uncharm, And with a princely uncontrolled arm Lead you to Florence, where my love and care Shall hang your wishes in my silver hair." A halter on his strange equivocation! "Nor for my years return me the sad willow; Who prefer blossoms before fruit that 's mellow?" Rotten, on my knowledge, with lying too long i' th' bedstraw. "And all the lines of age this line convinces; The gods never wax old, no more do princes." A pox on 't, tear it; let 's have no more atheists, for God's sake. Brach. Ud's death! I 'll cut her into atomies, And let th' irregular north wind sweep her up, And blow her int' his nostrils: where 's this whore? Flam. What? what do you call her? Brach. Oh, I could be mad! Prevent the curs'd disease she 'll bring me to, And tear my hair off. Where 's this changeable stuff? Flam. O'er head and ears in water, I assure you; She is not for your wearing. Brach. In, you pander! Flam. What, me, my lord? am I your dog?