_Str._ Duke, 'tis reported---- _Pier._ We both were rivals in our may of blood, Unto Maria, fair Ferrara's heir. He won the lady, to my honour's death, And from her sweets cropp'd this Antonio; For which I burnt in inward swelt'ring hate, And fester'd rankling malice in my breast, Till I might belk revenge upon his eyes: 30 And now (O blessèd now!) 'tis done. Hell, night, Give loud applause to my hypocrisy. When his bright valour even dazzled sense, In off'ring his own head, public reproach Had blurr'd my name. Speak, Strotzo, had it not? If then I had---- _Str._ It had, so please---- _Pier._ What had, so please? Unseasoned sycophant, Piero Sforza is no numbèd lord, Senseless of all true touch;[199] stroke not the head 40 Of infant speech, till it be fully born; Go to! _Str._ How now! Fut, I'll not smother your speech. _Pier._ Nay, right thine eyes: 'twas but a little spleen,-- (Huge plunge![200] Sin's grown a slave, and must observe slight evils; Huge villains are enforced to claw[201] all devils.)-- Pish, sweet, thy thoughts, and give me----. _Str._ Stroke not the head of infant speech! go to! _Pier._ Nay, calm this storm. I ever held thy breast More secret, and more firm in league of blood, 50 Than to be struck in heat with each slight puff. Give me thy ears; huge infamy [had] press['d] down My honour, if even then, when his fresh act Of prowess bloom'd out full, I had ta'en vengeance on his hated head----. _Str._ Why it had----. _Pier._ Could I avoid to give a seeming grant Unto fruition of Antonio's love? _Str._ No. _Pier._ And didst thou ever see a Judas kiss 60 With a more covert touch of fleering hate? _Str._ No. _Pier._ And having clipt them with pretence of love, Have I not crush'd them with a cruel wring? _Str._ Yes. _Pier._ Say, faith, didst thou e'er hear, or read, or see Such happy vengeance, unsuspected death? That I should drop strong poison in the bowl, Which I myself caroused unto his health And future fortune of our unity! 70 That it should work even in the hush[202] of night, And strangle him on sudden, that fair show Of death, for the excessive joy of his fate, Might choke the murder! Ha, Strotzo, is't not rare? Nay, but weigh it. Then Feliche stabb'd (Whose sinking thought[203] frighted my conscious heart), And laid by Mellida, to stop the match, And hale on mischief. This all in one night! Is't to be equall'd, think'st thou? O, I could eat Thy fumbling throat, for thy lagg'd censure. Fut, 80 Is't not rare? _Str._ Yes.