_Amb._ Why, we do thank you; if we live to be-- You shall have a better office. _2nd Off._ Your good lordship-- _Sup._ Commend us to the scaffold in our tears, _1st Off._ We'll weep, and do your commendations. _Amb._ Fine fools in office! [_Exeunt_ Officers. _Sup._ Things fall out so fit! _Amb._ So happily! come, brother! ere next clock, His head will be made serve a bigger block.[216] [_Exeunt._ SCENE III.--_Inside a Prison._ _Enter the_ DUCHESS' Youngest Son _and_ Keeper. _Y. Son._ Keeper! _Keep._ My lord. _Y. Son._ No news lately from our brothers? Are they unmindful of us? _Keep._ My lord, a messenger came newly in, And brought this from 'em. _Y. Son._ Nothing but paper-comforts? I looked for my delivery before this, Had they been worth their oaths.--Prythee, be from us. [_Exit_ Keeper. Now what say you, forsooth? speak out, I pray. [_Reads the letter._] "Brother, be of good cheer"; 'Slud, it begins like a whore with good cheer. "Thou shalt not be long a prisoner." Not six-and-thirty years, like a bankrupt--I think so. "We have thought upon a device to get thee out by a trick." By a trick! pox o' your trick, an' it be so long a playing. "And so rest comforted,--be merry, and expect it suddenly!" Be merry! hang merry, draw and quarter merry; I'll be mad. Is't not strange that a man should lie-in a whole month for a woman? Well, we shall see how sudden our brothers will be in their promise. I must expect still a trick: I shall not be long a prisoner. How now, what news? _Re-enter_ Keeper. _Keep._ Bad news, my lord; I am discharged of you. _Y. Son._ Slave! call'st thou that bad news? I thank you, brothers. _Keep._ My lord, 'twill prove so. Here come the officers, Into whose hands I must commit you. _Y. Son._ Ha, officers! what? why? _Enter_ Officers. _1st Off._ You must pardon us, my lord: Our office must be sound: here is our warrant, The signet from the duke; you must straight suffer. _Y. Son._ Suffer! I'll suffer you to begone; I'll suffer you To come no more; what would you have me suffer? _2nd Off._ My lord, those words were better changed to prayers. The time's but brief with you: prepare to die. _Y. Son._ Sure, 'tis not so! _3rd Off._ It is too true, my lord. _Y. Son._ I tell you 'tis not; for the duke my father Deferred me till next sitting; and I look, E'en every minute, threescore times an hour, For a release, a trick wrought by my brothers. _1st Off._ A trick, my lord! if you expect such comfort, Your hope's as fruitless as a barren woman: Your brothers were the unhappy messengers That brought this powerful token for your death. _Y. Son._ My brothers? no, no. _2nd Off._ 'Tis most true, my lord. _Y. Son._ My brothers to bring a warrant for my death! How strange this shows! _3rd Off._ There's no delaying time.