Flam. Study my prayers! he threatens me divinely! I am falling to pieces already. I care not, though, like Anacharsis, I were pounded to death in a mortar: and yet that death were fitter for usurers, gold and themselves to be beaten together, to make a most cordial cullis for the devil. He hath his uncle's villainous look already, In decimo-sexto. [Enter Courtier.] Now, sir, what are you? Court. It is the pleasure, sir, of the young duke, That you forbear the presence, and all rooms That owe him reverence. Flam. So the wolf and the raven are very pretty fools when they are young. It is your office, sir, to keep me out? Court. So the duke wills. Flam. Verily, Master Courtier, extremity is not to be used in all offices: say, that a gentlewoman were taken out of her bed about midnight, and committed to Castle Angelo, to the tower yonder, with nothing about her but her smock, would it not show a cruel part in the gentleman-porter to lay claim to her upper garment, pull it o'er her head and ears, and put her in naked? Court. Very good: you are merry. [Exit. Flam. Doth he make a court-ejectment of me? a flaming fire-brand casts more smoke without a chimney than within 't. I 'll smoor some of them. [Enter Francisco de Medicis. How now? thou art sad. Fran. I met even now with the most piteous sight. Flam. Thou meet'st another here, a pitiful Degraded courtier. Fran. Your reverend mother Is grown a very old woman in two hours. I found them winding of Marcello's corse; And there is such a solemn melody, 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies; Such as old granddames, watching by the dead, Were wont t' outwear the nights with that, believe me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, They were so o'ercharg'd with water. Flam. I will see them. Fran. 'Twere much uncharity in you; for your sight Will add unto their tears. Flam. I will see them: They are behind the traverse; I 'll discover Their superstitions howling. [He draws the traverse. Cornelia, the Moor, and three other Ladies discovered winding Marcello's corse. A song. Corn. This rosemary is wither'd; pray, get fresh. I would have these herbs grow upon his grave, When I am dead and rotten. Reach the bays, I 'll tie a garland here about his head; I have kept this twenty year, and every day Hallow'd it with my prayers; I did not think He should have wore it. Zan. Look you, who are yonder? Corn. Oh, reach me the flowers! Zan. Her ladyship 's foolish. Woman. Alas, her grief Hath turn'd her child again! Corn. You 're very welcome: [To Flamineo. There 's rosemary for you, and rue for you, Heart's-ease for you; I pray make much of it, I have left more for myself. Fran. Lady, who 's this? Corn. You are, I take it, the grave-maker.