Lodo. Italian beggars will resolve you that, Who, begging of alms, bid those they beg of, Do good for their own sakes; or 't may be, He spreads his bounty with a sowing hand, Like kings, who many times give out of measure, Not for desert so much, as for their pleasure. Mont. I know you 're cunning. Come, what devil was that That you were raising? Lodo. Devil, my lord? Mont. I ask you, How doth the duke employ you, that his bonnet Fell with such compliment unto his knee, When he departed from you? Lodo. Why, my lord, He told me of a resty Barbary horse Which he would fain have brought to the career, The sault, and the ring galliard: now, my lord, I have a rare French rider. Mont. Take your heed, Lest the jade break your neck. Do you put me off With your wild horse-tricks? Sirrah, you do lie. Oh, thou 'rt a foul black cloud, and thou dost threat A violent storm! Lodo. Storms are i' th' air, my lord; I am too low to storm. Mont. Wretched creature! I know that thou art fashion'd for all ill, Like dogs, that once get blood, they 'll ever kill. About some murder, was 't not? Lodo. I 'll not tell you: And yet I care not greatly if I do; Marry, with this preparation. Holy father, I come not to you as an intelligencer, But as a penitent sinner: what I utter Is in confession merely; which, you know, Must never be reveal'd. Mont. You have o'erta'en me. Lodo. Sir, I did love Brachiano's duchess dearly, Or rather I pursued her with hot lust, Though she ne'er knew on 't. She was poison'd; Upon my soul she was: for which I have sworn T' avenge her murder. Mont. To the Duke of Florence? Lodo. To him I have. Mont. Miserable creature! If thou persist in this, 'tis damnable. Dost thou imagine, thou canst slide on blood, And not be tainted with a shameful fall? Or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree, Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves, And yet to prosper? Instruction to thee Comes like sweet showers to o'er-harden'd ground; They wet, but pierce not deep. And so I leave thee, With all the furies hanging 'bout thy neck, Till by thy penitence thou remove this evil, In conjuring from thy breast that cruel devil. [Exit. Lodo. I 'll give it o'er; he says 'tis damnable: Besides I did expect his suffrage, By reason of Camillo's death. Enter Servant and Francisco Fran. Do you know that count? Servant. Yes, my lord. Fran. Bear him these thousand ducats to his lodging. Tell him the Pope hath sent them. Happily That will confirm more than all the rest. [Exit. Servant. Sir. Lodo. To me, sir? Servant. His Holiness hath sent you a thousand crowns, And wills you, if you travel, to make him Your patron for intelligence.