I hold Antonio, for his father's sake, So very dearly, so entirely choice, That knew I but a thought of prejudice Imagined 'gainst his high ennobled blood, I would maintain a mortal feud, undying hate, 'Gainst the conceiver's life. And shall justice sleep In fleshly lethargy, for mine own blood's favour, When the sweet prince hath so apparent scorn By my--I will not call her daughter? Go, 90 Conduct in the loved youth Antonio: [_Exit_ ALBERTO _to fetch_ ANTONIO. He shall behold me spurn my private good; Piero loves his honour more than 's blood. _Ant._ [_Aside._] The devil he does more than both. _Bal._ Stand back there, fool; I do hate a fool most, most pathetically. O, these that have no sap of retort and obtuse wit in them: faugh! _Ant._ Puff, hold, world; puff, hold, bubble; puff, hold, world; puff, break not behind; puff, thou art full of wind; puff, keep up thy[290] wind; puff, 'tis broke! and now I laugh like a good fool at the breath of mine own lips, he, he, he, he, he! 102 _Bal._ You fool! _Ant._ You fool, puff! _Bal._ I cannot disgest[291] thee, the unvulgar fool. Go, fool. _Pier._ Forbear, Balurdo; let the fool alone. Come hither.[292] Is he your fool? _Mar._ Yes, my loved lord. _Pier._ [_Aside._] Would all the states[293] in Venice were like thee! O then I were secur'd. 110 He that's a villain, or but meanly soul'd, Must still converse and cling to routs of fools, That can not search the leaks of his defects. O, your unsalted fresh fool is your only man: These vinegar tart spirits are too piercing, Too searching in the unglued joints of shaken wits. Find they a chink, they'll wriggle in and in, And eat like salt sea in his siddow[294] ribs, Till they have opened all his rotten parts Unto the vaunting surge of base contempt, 120 And sunk the tossèd galleasse[295] in depth Of whirlpool scorn. Give me an honest fop.-- Dud a dud a! Why lo, sir, this takes he As grateful now as a monopoly. [_The still flutes sound softly._ _Enter_ FOROBOSCO _and_ CASTILIO: MELLIDA _supported by two waiting-women_. _Mel._ All honour to this royal confluence. _Pier._ Forbear, impure, to blot bright honour's name With thy defilèd lips. The flux of sin Flows from thy tainted body: thou so foul, So all dishonour'd, canst no honour give, No wish of good, that can have good effect 130 To this grave senate, and illustrate bloods. Why stays the doom of death? _1st. Sen._ Who riseth up to manifest her guilt? _2d Sen._ You must produce apparent proof, my lord.