_Pier._ 'Tis horse-like not for man to know his force. _Feli._ 'Tis god-like for a man to feel remorse.[58] _Pier._ Pish! I prosecute my family's revenge, Which I'll pursue with such a burning chase, Till I have dried up all Andrugio's blood; 90 Weak rage, that with slight pity is withstood.-- [_The cornets sound a flourish._ What means that fresh triumphal flourish sound? _Alb._ The prince of Milan, and young Florence' heir, Approach to gratulate your victory. _Pier._ We'll girt them with an ample waste of love. Conduct them to our presence royally; Let vollies of the great artillery From off our galleys' banks[59] play prodigal, And sound loud welcome from their bellowing mouths. [_Exeunt all but_ PIERO. _The cornets sound a senet. Enter above_, MELLIDA, ROSSALINE, _and_ FLAVIA. _Enter below_, GALEATZO _with Attendants_; PIERO _meeteth him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound a flourish_; PIERO _and_ GALEATZO _exeunt; the rest stand still_. _Mel._ What prince was that passed through my father's guard? 100 _Fla._ 'Twas Galeatzo, the young Florentine. _Ros._ Troth, one that will besiege thy maidenhead; Enter the walls, i'faith (sweet Mellida), If that thy flankers be not cannon-proof. _Mel._ O, Mary Ambree,[60] good, thy judgment, wench? Thy bright election's clear:[61] what will he prove? _Ros._ Hath a short finger and a naked chin, A skipping eye; dare lay my judgment (faith) His love is glibbery;[62] there's no hold on't, wench. Give me a husband whose aspect is firm; 110 A full-cheek'd gallant with a bouncing thigh: O, he is the _Paradizo dell madonne contento_. _Mel._ Even such a one was my Antonio. [_The cornets sound a senet._ _Ros._ By my nine and thirtieth servant, sweet, Thou art in love; but stand on tiptoe,[63] fair; Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, i'faith. _Enter_ MATZAGENTE; PIERO _meets him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound a flourish: they two stand, using seeming compliments, whilst the scene passeth above_. _Mel._ St. Mark, St. Mark! what kind of thing appears? _Ros._ For fancy's passion, spit upon him! Fie, His face is varnish'd. In the name of love, What country bred that creature? _Mel._ What is he, Flavia? 120 _Fla._ The heir of Milan, Signior Matzagente. _Ros._ Matzagente! now, by my pleasure's hope, He is made like a tilting-staff; and looks For all the world like an o'er-roasted pig: A great tobacco-taker too, that's flat; For his eyes look as if they had been hung In the smoke of his nose. _Mel._ What husband will he prove, sweet Rossaline?