Lodo. Si nunc quoque probas ea, quæ acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in lœvum. He is departing: pray stand all apart, And let us only whisper in his ears Some private meditations, which our order Permits you not to hear. [Here, the rest being departed, Lodovico and Gasparo discover themselves. Gas. Brachiano. Lodo. Devil Brachiano, thou art damn'd. Gas. Perpetually. Lodo. A slave condemn'd and given up to the gallows, Is thy great lord and master. Gas. True; for thou Art given up to the devil. Lodo. Oh, you slave! You that were held the famous politician, Whose art was poison. Gas. And whose conscience, murder. Lodo. That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs, Ere she was poison'd. Gas. That had your villainous sallets. Lodo. And fine embroider'd bottles, and perfumes, Equally mortal with a winter plague. Gas. Now there 's mercury---- Lodo. And copperas---- Gas. And quicksilver---- Lodo. With other devilish 'pothecary stuff, A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear? Gas. This is Count Lodovico. Lodo. This, Gasparo: And thou shalt die like a poor rogue. Gas. And stink Like a dead fly-blown dog. Lodo. And be forgotten Before the funeral sermon. Brach. Vittoria! Vittoria! Lodo. Oh, the cursed devil Comes to himself a gain! we are undone. Gas. Strangle him in private. [Enter Vittoria and the Attendants. What? Will you call him again to live in treble torments? For charity, for christian charity, avoid the chamber. Lodo. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. [Brachiano is strangled. Gas. What, is it done? Lodo. The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' th' world, Though she had practis'd seven year at the pest-house, Could have done 't quaintlier. My lords, he 's dead. Vittoria and the others come forward Omnes. Rest to his soul! Vit. Oh me! this place is hell. Fran. How heavily she takes it! Flam. Oh, yes, yes; Had women navigable rivers in their eyes, They would dispend them all. Surely, I wonder Why we should wish more rivers to the city, When they sell water so good cheap. I 'll tell thee These are but Moorish shades of griefs or fears; There 's nothing sooner dry than women's tears. Why, here 's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing. Court promises! let wise men count them curs'd; For while you live, he that scores best, pays worst. Fran. Sure this was Florence' doing.