_Duch._ He called his father villain, and me strumpet, A word that I abhor to file[211] my lips with. _Amb._ That was not so well-done, brother. _Lus._ I am abused--I know there's no excuse can do me good. [_Aside._ _Ven._ 'Tis now good policy to be from sight; His vicious purpose to our sister's honour I crossed beyond our thought. [_Aside._ _Hip._ You little dreamt his father slept here. _Ven._ O, 'twas far beyond me: But since it fell so--without frightful words, Would he had killed him, 'twould have eased our swords. _Duke._ Be comforted, our duchess, he shall die. [_Exeunt_ VENDICE _and_ HIPPOLITO. _Lus._ Where's this slave-pander now? out of mine eye, Guilty of this abuse. _Enter_ SPURIO _with_ Servants. _Spu._ Y' are villains, fablers![212] You have knaves' chins and harlots' tongues; you lie; And I will damn you with one meal a day. _1st Ser_. O good my lord! _Spu._ 'Sblood, you shall never sup. _2nd Ser._ O, I beseech you, sir! _Spu._ To let my sword catch cold so long, and miss him! _1st Ser._ Troth, my lord, 'twas his intent to meet there. _Spu._ 'Heart! he's yonder. Ha, what news here? is the day out o' the socket, That it is noon at midnight? the court up? How comes the guard so saucy with his elbows? _Lus._ The bastard here? Nay, then the truth of my intent shall out; My lord and father, hear me. _Duke._ Bear him hence. _Lus._ I can with loyalty excuse. _Duke._ Excuse? to prison with the villain! Death shall not long lag after him. _Spu._ Good, i' faith: then 'tis not much amiss. _Lus._ Brothers, my best release lies on your tongues; I pray, persuade for me. _Amb._ It is our duties; make yourself sure of us. _Sup._ We'll sweat in pleading. _Lus._ And I may live to thank you. [_Exit with_ Lords. _Amb._ No, thy death shall thank me better. _Spu._ He's gone; I'll after him, And know his trespass; seem to bear a part In all his ills, but with a puritan heart. [_Exit with_ Servants. _Amb._ Now, brother, let our hate and love be woven So subtlely together, that in speaking one word for his life, We may make three for his death: The craftiest pleader gets most gold for breath. _Sup._ Set on, I'll not be far behind you, brother. _Duke._ Is't possible a son should be disobedient as far as the sword? It is the highest: he can go no farther. _Amb._ My gracious lord, take pity-- _Duke._ Pity, boys! _Amb._ Nay, we'd be loth to move your grace too much; We know the trespass is unpardonable, Black, wicked, and unnatural. _Sup._ In a son! O, monstrous! _Amb._ Yet, my lord, A duke's soft hand strokes the rough head of law, And makes it lie smooth. _Duke._ But my hand shall ne'er do't. _Amb._ That as you please, my lord.