Brach. A bloodhound: do you brave, do you stand me? Flam. Stand you! let those that have diseases run; I need no plasters. Brach. Would you be kick'd? Flam. Would you have your neck broke? I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia; My shins must be kept whole. Brach. Do you know me? Flam. Oh, my lord, methodically! As in this world there are degrees of evils, So in this world there are degrees of devils. You 're a great duke, I your poor secretary. I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian sallet, daily. Brach. Pander, ply your convoy, and leave your prating. Flam. All your kindness to me, is like that miserable courtesy of Polyphemus to Ulysses; you reserve me to be devoured last: you would dig turfs out of my grave to feed your larks; that would be music to you. Come, I 'll lead you to her. Brach. Do you face me? Flam. Oh, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool. Enter Vittoria to Brachiano and Flamineo Brach. Can you read, mistress? look upon that letter: There are no characters, nor hieroglyphics. You need no comment; I am grown your receiver. God's precious! you shall be a brave great lady, A stately and advanced whore. Vit. Say, sir? Brach. Come, come, let 's see your cabinet, discover Your treasury of love-letters. Death and furies! I 'll see them all. Vit. Sir, upon my soul, I have not any. Whence was this directed? Brach. Confusion on your politic ignorance! You are reclaim'd, are you? I 'll give you the bells, And let you fly to the devil. Flam. Ware hawk, my lord. Vit. Florence! this is some treacherous plot, my lord; To me he ne'er was lovely, I protest, So much as in my sleep. Brach. Right! there are plots. Your beauty! Oh, ten thousand curses on 't! How long have I beheld the devil in crystal! Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice, With music, and with fatal yokes of flowers, To my eternal ruin. Woman to man Is either a god, or a wolf. Vit. My lord---- Brach. Away! We 'll be as differing as two adamants, The one shall shun the other. What! dost weep? Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade, Ye 'd furnish all the Irish funerals With howling past wild Irish. Flam. Fie, my lord! Brach. That hand, that cursed hand, which I have wearied With doting kisses!--Oh, my sweetest duchess, How lovely art thou now!--My loose thoughts Scatter like quicksilver: I was bewitch'd; For all the world speaks ill of thee. Vit. No matter; I 'll live so now, I 'll make that world recant, And change her speeches. You did name your duchess. Brach. Whose death God pardon! Vit. Whose death God revenge On thee, most godless duke! Flam. Now for two whirlwinds.