Flam. Sir, you shall. Brach. No, some fried dog-fish; your quails feed on poison. That old dog-fox, that politician, Florence! I 'll forswear hunting, and turn dog-killer. Rare! I 'll be friends with him; for, mark you, sir, one dog Still sets another a-barking. Peace, peace! Yonder 's a fine slave come in now. Flam. Where? Brach. Why, there, In a blue bonnet, and a pair of breeches With a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha! Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins, With pearls o' th' head of them. Do you not know him? Flam. No, my lord. Brach. Why, 'tis the devil. I know him by a great rose he wears on 's shoe, To hide his cloven foot. I 'll dispute with him; He 's a rare linguist. Vit. My lord, here 's nothing. Brach. Nothing! rare! nothing! when I want money, Our treasury is empty, there is nothing: I 'll not be use'd thus. Vit. Oh, lie still, my lord! Brach. See, see Flamineo, that kill'd his brother, Is dancing on the ropes there, and he carries A money-bag in each hand, to keep him even, For fear of breaking 's neck: and there 's a lawyer, In a gown whipped with velvet, stares and gapes When the money will fall. How the rogue cuts capers! It should have been in a halter. 'Tis there; what 's she? Flam. Vittoria, my lord. Brach. Ha, ha, ha! her hair is sprinkl'd with orris powder, That makes her look as if she had sinn'd in the pastry. What 's he? Flam. A divine, my lord. [Brachiano seems here near his end; Lodovico and Gasparo, in the habit of Capuchins, present him in his bed with a crucifix and hallowed candle. Brach. He will be drunk; avoid him: th' argument Is fearful, when churchmen stagger in 't. Look you, six grey rats that have lost their tails Crawl upon the pillow; send for a rat-catcher: I 'll do a miracle, I 'll free the court From all foul vermin. Where 's Flamineo? Flam. I do not like that he names me so often, Especially on 's death-bed; 'tis a sign I shall not live long. See, he 's near his end. Lodo. Pray, give us leave. Attende, domine Brachiane. Flam. See how firmly he doth fix his eye Upon the crucifix. Vit. Oh, hold it constant! It settles his wild spirits; and so his eyes Melt into tears. Lodo. Domine Brachiane, solebas in bello tutus esse tuo clypeo; nunc hunc clypeum hosti tuo opponas infernali. [By the crucifix. Gas. Olim hastâ valuisti in bello; nunc hanc sacram hastam vibrabis contra hostem animarum. [By the hallowed taper. Lodo. Attende, Domine Brachiane, si nunc quoque probes ea, quæ acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in dextrum. Gas. Esto securus, Domine Brachiane; cogita, quantum habeas meritorum; denique memineris mean animam pro tuâ oppignoratum si quid esset periculi.