_Card._ Here's a plot upon me; I am assaulted! I am lost, Unless some rescue. _Gris._ He doth this pretty well; But it will not serve to laugh me out of mine honour. _Card._ The sword's at my throat! _Rod._ You would not bawl so loud then. _Mal._ Come, come, let's go To bed: he told us thus much aforehand. _Pes._ He wished you should not come at him; but, believe't, The accent of the voice sounds not in jest: I'll down to him, howsoever, and with engines Force ope the doors. [_Exit above._ _Rod._ Let's follow him aloof, And note how the cardinal will laugh at him. [_Exeunt, above_, MALATESTI, RODERIGO, _and_ GRISOLAN. _Bos._ There's for you first, 'Cause you shall not unbarricade the door To let in rescue. [_Kills the_ Servant. _Card._ What cause hast thou to pursue my life? _Bos._ Look there. _Card._ Antonio! _Bos._ Slain by my hand unwittingly. Pray, and be sudden: when thou killed'st thy sister, Thou took'st from Justice her most equal balance, And left her naught but her sword. _Card._ O, mercy! _Bos._ Now it seems thy greatness was only outward; For thou fall'st faster of thyself than calamity Can drive thee. I'll not waste longer time; there! [_Stabs him._ _Card._ Thou hast hurt me. _Bos._ Again! [_Stabs him again._ _Card._ Shall I die like a leveret, Without any resistance?--Help, help, help! I am slain! _Enter_ FERDINAND. _Ferd._ The alarum! give me a fresh horse; Rally the vaunt-guard, or the day is lost. Yield, yield! I give you the honour of arms, Shake my sword over you; will you yield? _Card._ Help me; I am your brother! _Ferd._ The devil! My brother fight upon the adverse party! [_He wounds the_ Cardinal, _and, in the scuffle, gives_ BOSOLA _his death-wound._ There flies your ransom. _Card._ O justice! I suffer now for what hath former bin: Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin. _Ferd._ Now you're brave fellows. Cæsar's fortune was harder than Pompey's; Cæsar died in the arms of prosperity, Pompey at the feet of disgrace. You both died in the field. The pain's nothing: pain many times is taken away with the apprehension of greater, as the toothache with the sight of the barber that comes to pull it out: there's philosophy for you. _Bos._ Now my revenge is perfect.--Sink, thou main cause [_Kills_ FERDINAND. Of my undoing!--The last part of my life Hath done me best service. _Ferd._ Give me some wet hay; I am broken-winded I do account this world but a dog kennel: I will vault credit and affect high pleasures Beyond death. _Bos._ He seems to come to himself, Now he's so near the bottom. _Ferd._ My sister, O my sister! there's the cause on't. Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust. [_Dies._ _Card._ Thou hast thy payment too.