_1st Judge._ Let that offender-- _Duch._ Live, and be in health. _1st Judge._ Be on a scaffold-- _Duke._ Hold, hold, my lord! _Spu._ Pox on't, What makes my dad speak now? [_Aside._ _Duke._ We will defer the judgment till next sitting: In the meantime, let him be kept close prisoner. Guard, bear him hence. _Amb._ Brother, this makes for thee; Fear not, we'll have a trick to set thee free. [_Aside._ _Y. Son._ Brother, I will expect it from you both; And in that hope I rest. [_Aside._ _Sup._ Farewell, be merry. [_Exit with a_ Guard. _Spu._ Delayed! deferred! nay then, if judgment have cold blood, Flattery and bribes will kill it. _Duke._ About it, then, my lords, with your best powers: More serious business calls upon our hours. [_Exeunt, excepting the_ DUCHESS. _Duch._ Was't ever known step-duchess was so mild And calm as I? some now would plot his death With easy doctors, those loose-living men, And make his withered grace fall to his grave, And keep church better. Some second wife would do this, and despatch Her double-loathèd lord at meat or sleep. Indeed, 'tis true, an old man's twice a child; Mine cannot speak; one of his single words Would quite have freed my youngest dearest son From death or durance, and have made him walk With a bold foot upon the thorny law, Whose prickles should bow under him; but 'tis not, And therefore wedlock-faith shall be forgot: I'll kill him in his forehead; hate, there feed; That wound is deepest, though it never bleed. And here comes he whom my heart points unto, His bastard son, but my love's true-begot; Many a wealthy letter have I sent him, Swelled up with jewels, and the timorous man Is yet but coldly kind. That jewel's mine that quivers in his ear, Mocking his master's chillness and vain fear. He has spied me now! _Enter_ SPURIO. _Spu._ Madam, your grace so private? My duty on your hand. _Duch._ Upon my hand, sir! troth, I think you'd fear To kiss my hand too; if my lip stood there. _Spu._ Witness I would not, madam. [_Kisses her._ _Duch._ 'Tis a wonder; For ceremony has made many fools! It is as easy way unto a duchess, As to a hatted dame,[185] if her love answer: But that by timorous honours, pale respects, Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways Hard of themselves. What, have you thought of me? _Spu._ Madam, I ever think of you in duty, Regard, and-- _Duch._ Pooh! upon my love, I mean. _Spu._ I would 'twere love; but 'tis a fouler name Than lust: you are my father's wife--your grace may guess now What I could call it. _Duch._ Why, th' art his son but falsely; 'Tis a hard question whether he begot thee.