Flam. Very likely: Those are found weighty strokes which come from th' hand, But those are killing strokes which come from th' head. Oh, the rare tricks of a Machiavellian! He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave, And buffet you to death; no, my quaint knave, He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing, As if you had swallow'd down a pound of saffron. You see the feat, 'tis practis'd in a trice; To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice. Fran. Now have the people liberty to talk, And descant on his vices. Flam. Misery of princes, That must of force be censur'd by their slaves! Not only blam'd for doing things are ill, But for not doing all that all men will: One were better be a thresher. Ud's death! I would fain speak with this duke yet. Fran. Now he 's dead? Flam. I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths Will get to th' speech of him, though forty devils Wait on him in his livery of flames, I 'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand, Though I be blasted. [Exit. Fran. Excellent Lodovico! What! did you terrify him at the last gasp? Lodo. Yes, and so idly, that the duke had like T' have terrified us. Fran. How? Enter the Moor Lodo. You shall hear that hereafter. See, yon 's the infernal, that would make up sport. Now to the revelation of that secret She promis'd when she fell in love with you. Fran. You 're passionately met in this sad world. Zan. I would have you look up, sir; these court tears Claim not your tribute to them: let those weep, That guiltily partake in the sad cause. I knew last night, by a sad dream I had, Some mischief would ensue: yet, to say truth, My dream most concern'd you. Lodo. Shall 's fall a-dreaming? Fran. Yes, and for fashion sake I 'll dream with her. Zan. Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed. Fran. Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this light I was a-dreamt on thee too; for methought I saw thee naked. Zan. Fie, sir! as I told you, Methought you lay down by me. Fran. So dreamt I; And lest thou shouldst take cold, I cover'd thee With this Irish mantle. Zan. Verily I did dream You were somewhat bold with me: but to come to 't---- Lodo. How! how! I hope you will not got to 't here. Fran. Nay, you must hear my dream out. Zan. Well, sir, forth. Fran. When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laugh Exceedingly, methought. Zan. Laugh! Fran. And criedst out, the hair did tickle thee. Zan. There was a dream indeed! Lodo. Mark her, I pray thee, she simpers like the suds A collier hath been wash'd in. Zan. Come, sir; good fortune tends you. I did tell you I would reveal a secret: Isabella, The Duke of Florence' sister, was empoisone'd By a fum'd picture; and Camillo's neck Was broke by damn'd Flamineo, the mischance Laid on a vaulting-horse. Fran. Most strange!