_Qua._ Duke, prince, royal blood!--thou that hast the best means to be damn'd of any lord in Venice;--thou great man! let me kiss thy flesh. I am fat,[557] and therefore faithful; I will do that which few of thy subjects do,--love thee: but I will never do that which all thy subjects do,--flatter thee thy humour's real, good. A comedy! 220 No, and thy sense would banquet in delights Appropriate to the blood of emperors, Peculiar to the state of majesty, That none can relish but dilated greatness, Vouchsafe to view the structure of a scene That stands on tragic solid passion. O that's fit traffic to commerce with births, Strain'd from the mud of base unable brains! Give them a scene may force their struggling blood Rise up on tiptoe in attention, 230 And fill their intellect with pure elixed wit; O that's for greatness apt, for princes fit! _Duke._ Darest thou then undertake to suit our ears With such rich vestment? _Qua._ Dare! Yes, my prince, I dare;--nay, more, I will. And I'll present a subject worth thy soul;-- The honour'd end of Cato Utican. _Duke._ Who'll personate him? _Qua._ Marry, that will I, on sudden, without change. _Duke._ Thou want'st a beard. 240 _Qua._ Tush! a beard ne'er made Cato, though many men's Cato hang only on their chin. Suppose this floor the city Utica, The time the night that prolonged Cato's death; Now being placed 'mong his philosophers, These first discourse the soul's eternity. _Jaco._ Cato grants that, I am sure, for he was valiant and honest, which an epicure ne'er was, and a coward never will be. _Qua._ Then Cato holds a distinct notion 250 Of individual actions after death. This being argued, his resolve maintains A true magnanimous spirit should give up dirt To dirt, and with his own flesh dead his flesh, 'Fore chance should force it crouch unto his foe; To kill one's self, some ay, some hold it no. O these are points would entice away one's soul To break indenture of base prenticage, _Enter_ FRANCISCO. And run away from 's body in swift thoughts, To melt in contemplation's luscious sweets! 260 Now, O my voluptuous duke, I'll feed thy sense Worth his creation: give me audience. _Fran._ My liege, my royal liege, hear, hear my suit. _Qua._ Now may thy breath ne'er smell sweet as long as thy lungs can pant, for breaking my speech, thou Muscovite! thou stinking perfumer! 266 _Enter_ ALBANO. _Duke._ Is not this Albano, our sometimes courtier? _Fran._ No, troth, but Francisco, your always perfumer.