_Fran. de Med._ Do not fear it: I'll answer you in your own hawking phrase. Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease; Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize. You know Vittoria! _Brach._ Yes. _Fran. de Med._ You shift your shirt there, When you retire from tennis? _Brach._ Happily.[33] _Fran. de Med._ Her husband is lord of a poor fortune; Yet she wears cloth of tissue. _Brach._ What of this?-- Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal, As part of her confession at next shrift, And know from whence it sails? _Fran. de Med._ She is your strumpet. _Brach._ Uncivil sir, there's hemlock in thy breath, And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine, All thy loud cannons, and thy borrowed Switzers, Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates, Durst not supplant her. _Fran. de Med._ Let's not talk on thunder. Thou hast a wife, our sister: would I had given Both her white hands to death, bound and locked fast. In her last winding-sheet, when I gave thee But one! _Brach._ Thou hadst given a soul to God, then. _Fran. de Med._ True: Thy ghostly father, with all's absolution, Shall ne'er do so by thee. _Brach._ Spit thy poison. _Fran. de Med._ I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle. Look to't, for our anger Is making thunder-bolts. _Brach._ Thunder! in faith, They are but crackers. _Fran. de Med._ We'll end this with the cannon. _Brach._ Thou'lt get naught by it but iron in thy wounds, And gunpowder in thy nostrils. _Fran. de Med._ Better that, Than change perfumes for plasters. _Brach._ Pity on thee: 'Twere good you'd show your slaves or men condemned Your new-ploughed forehead-defiance! And I'll meet thee, Even in a thicket of thy ablest men. _Mont._ My lords, you shall not word it any further Without a milder limit. _Fran. de Med._ Willingly. _Brach._ Have you proclaimed a triumph, that you bait A lion thus! _Mont._ My lord! _Brach._ I am tame, I am tame, sir. _Fran. de Med._ We send unto the duke for conference 'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke Is not at home: we come ourself in person; Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear, When Tiber to each prowling passenger Discovers flocks of wild ducks; then, my lord, 'Bout moulting time I mean, we shall be certain To find you sure enough, and speak with you. _Brach._ Ha! _Fran. de Med._ A mere tale of a tub, my words are idle; But to express the sonnet by natural reason,-- When stags grow melancholic, you'll find the season. _Mont._ No more, my lord: here comes a champion Shall end the difference between you both,-- _Re-enter_ GIOVANNI.