_Vit. Cor._ To pass away the time, I'll tell your grace A dream I had last night. _Brach._ Most wishedly. _Vit. Cor._ A foolish idle dream. Methought I walked about the mid of night Into a church-yard, where a goodly yew-tree Spread her large root in ground. Under that yew, As I sate sadly leaning on a grave Chequered with cross sticks, there came stealing in Your duchess and my husband: one of them A pick-axe bore, the other a rusty spade; And in rough terms they gan to challenge me About this yew. _Brach._ That tree? _Vit. Cor._ This harmless yew: They told me my intent was to root up That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it A withered blackthorn; and for that they vowed To bury me alive. My husband straight With pick-axe gan to dig, and your fell duchess With shovel, like a Fury, voided out The earth, and scattered bones. Lord, how, methought, I trembled! and yet, for all this terror, I could not pray. _Flam._ No; the devil was in your dream. _Vit. Cor._ When to my rescue there arose, methought, A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant; And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. _Flam._ Excellent devil! she hath taught him in a dream To make away his duchess and her husband. _Brach._ Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodged within his arms who shall protect you From all the fevers of a jealous husband; From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess. I'll seat you above law, and above scandal; Give to your thoughts the invention of delight, And the fruition; nor shall government Divide me from you longer than a care To keep you great: you shall to me at once Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and all. _Cor._ [_Coming forward_]. Woe to light hearts, they still fore-run our fall! _Flam._ What Fury raised thee up?--Away, away! [_Exit_ ZANCHE. _Cor._ What make you here, my lord, this dead of night? Never dropped mildew on a flower here Till now. _Flam._ I pray, will you go to bed, then, Lest you be blasted? _Cor._ O, that this fair garden Had with all poisoned herbs of Thessaly At first been planted; made a nursery For witchcraft, rather than a burial plot For both your honours! _Vit. Cor._ Dearest mother, hear me. _Cor._ O, thou dost make my brow bend to the earth, Sooner than nature! See, the curse of children! In life they keep us frequently in tears; And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears. _Brach._ Come, come, I will not hear you. _Vit. Cor._ Dear, my lord,-- _Cor._ Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke? Thou little dreamd'st this night she is come to Rome. _Flam._ How! come to Rome! _Vit. Cor._ The duchess! _Brach._ She had been better--