[FERNEZE _takes_ MAQUERELLE _and_ CELSO BIANCA: _then the cornets sound the measure, one change, and rest_. _Fer._ [_to_ BIANCA.] Believe it, lady; shall I swear? let me enjoy you in private, and I'll marry you, by my soul. _Bian._ I had rather you would swear by your body: I think that would prove the more regarded oath with you. _Fer._ I'll swear by them both, to please you. _Bian._ O, damn them not both to please me, for God's sake! 136 _Fer._ Faith, sweet creature, let me enjoy you to-night, and I'll marry you to-morrow fortnight, by my troth, la. _Maq._ On his troth, la! believe him not; that kind of cony-catching is as stale as Sir Oliver Anchovy's perfumed[571] jerkin: promise of matrimony by a young gallant, to bring a virgin lady into a fool's paradise; make her a great woman, and then cast her off;--'tis as common and[572] natural to a courtier, as jealousy to a citizen, gluttony to a puritan, wisdom to an alderman, pride to a tailor, or an empty hand-basket[573] to one of these sixpenny damnations: of his troth, la! believe him not; traps to catch pole-cats. _Mal._ [_to_ MARIA]. Keep your face constant, let no sudden passion Speak in your eyes. _Maria._ O my Altofront! 150 _Pietro._ [_to_ AURELIA.] A tyrant's jealousies Are very nimble: you receive it all? _Aur._ My heart, though not my knees, doth humbly fall Low as the earth, to thee. _Mal._[574] Peace! next change; no words. _Maria._ Speech to such, ay, O, what will affords! [_Cornets sound the measure over again; which danced, they unmask._ _Men._ Malevole! [_They environ_ MENDOZA, _bending their pistols on him_. _Mal._ No. _Men._ Altofront! Duke Pietro![575] Ferneze! ha! _All._ Duke Altofront! Duke Altofront! [_Cornets, a flourish._--_They seize upon_ MENDOZA. _Men._ Are we surpris'd? what strange delusions mock 160 Our senses? do I dream? or have I dreamt This two days' space? where am I? _Mal._ Where an arch-villain is. _Men._ O, lend me breath till[576] I am fit to die! For peace with heaven, for your own souls' sake, Vouchsafe me life! _Pietro._ Ignoble villain! whom neither heaven nor hell, Goodness of God or man, could once make good! _Mal._ Base, treacherous wretch! what grace canst thou expect, That hast grown impudent in gracelessness? 170 _Men._ O, life!