_Men._ He's caught, the woodcock's head is i' the noose. Now treads Ferneze in dangerous path of lust, Swearing his sense is merely[410] deified: The fool grasps clouds, and shall beget Centaurs: And now, in strength of panting faint delight, The goat bids heaven envy him. Good goose, I can afford thee nothing But the poor comfort of calamity, pity. Lust's like the plummets hanging on clock-lines, Will ne'er ha' done till all is quite undone; 10 Such is the course salt sallow lust doth run; Which thou shalt try. I'll be reveng'd. Duke, thy suspect; Duchess, thy disgrace; Ferneze, thy rivalship; Shall have swift vengeance. Nothing so holy, No band of nature so strong, No law of friendship so sacred, But I'll profane, burst, violate, 'fore I'll Endure disgrace, contempt, and poverty. Shall I, whose very hum struck all heads bare, Whose face made silence, creaking of whose shoe 20 Forc'd the most private passages fly ope, Scrape like a servile dog at some latch'd door? Learn how to make a leg, and cry "Beseech ye, Pray ye, is such a lord within?" be aw'd At some odd usher's scoff'd formality? First sear my brains! _Unde cadis, non quo, refert_;[411] My heart cries, "Perish all!" How! how! what fate Can once avoid revenge, that's desperate? I'll to the duke: if all should ope--if! tush, Fortune still dotes on those who cannot blush. 30 [_Exit._ [408] Lantern. [409] Some copies of ed. 1. "the Dutches pages." [410] Wholly. [411] See note 1, p. 49. SCENE II. _Chamber in the Duke's Palace._ _Enter_ MALEVOLE _at one door_; BIANCA, EMILIA, _and_ MAQUERELLE _at the other door_. _Mal._ Bless ye, cast o' ladies![412]--Ha, dipsas![413] how dost thou, old coal? _Maq._ Old coal! _Mal._ Ay, old coal: methinks thou liest like a brand under these[414] billets of green wood. He that will inflame a young wench's heart, let him lay close to her an old coal that hath first been fired, a panderess, my half-burnt lint, who though thou canst not flame thyself, yet art able to set a thousand virgin's tapers afire.--And how does[415] Janivere thy husband, my little periwinkle? is he troubled with the cough o' the lungs still? does he hawk o' nights still? he will not bite. 12 _Bian._ No, by my troth, I took him with his mouth empty of old teeth. _Mal._ And he took thee with thy belly full of young bones: marry, he took his maim by the stroke of his enemy. _Bian._ And I mine by the stroke of my friend.