Flam. Now, you that stand so much upon your honour, Is this a fitting time a' night, think you, To send a duke home without e'er a man? I would fain know where lies the mass of wealth Which you have hoarded for my maintenance, That I may bear my beard out of the level Of my lord's stirrup. Corn. What! because we are poor Shall we be vicious? Flam. Pray, what means have you To keep me from the galleys, or the gallows? My father prov'd himself a gentleman, Sold all 's land, and, like a fortunate fellow, Died ere the money was spent. You brought me up At Padua, I confess, where I protest, For want of means--the University judge me-- I have been fain to heel my tutor's stockings, At least seven years; conspiring with a beard, Made me a graduate; then to this duke's service, I visited the court, whence I return'd More courteous, more lecherous by far, But not a suit the richer. And shall I, Having a path so open, and so free To my preferment, still retain your milk In my pale forehead? No, this face of mine I 'll arm, and fortify with lusty wine, 'Gainst shame and blushing. Corn. O that I ne'er had borne thee! Flam. So would I; I would the common'st courtesan in Rome Had been my mother, rather than thyself. Nature is very pitiful to whores, To give them but few children, yet those children Plurality of fathers; they are sure They shall not want. Go, go, Complain unto my great lord cardinal; It may be he will justify the act. Lycurgus wonder'd much, men would provide Good stallions for their mares, and yet would suffer Their fair wives to be barren. Corn. Misery of miseries! [Exit. Flam. The duchess come to court! I like not that. We are engag'd to mischief, and must on; As rivers to find out the ocean Flow with crook bendings beneath forced banks, Or as we see, to aspire some mountain's top, The way ascends not straight, but imitates The subtle foldings of a winter's snake, So who knows policy and her true aspect, Shall find her ways winding and indirect. ACT II SCENE I Enter Francisco de Medicis, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived? Isab. Not yet, sir. Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind; If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's, I would set fire on 't were 't but to destroy The polecats that haunt to it--My sweet cousin! Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse, And armour. Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin. Marcello, see it fitted. Marc. My lord, the duke is here. Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen.