_Isab._ 'Tis burdened with too many; and I think, The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleeps will be the sounder. _Brach._ Take your chamber. _Isab._ Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry: Doth not my absence from you, now two months, Merit one kiss? _Brach._ I do not use to kiss: If that will dispossess your jealousy, I'll swear it to you. _Isab._ O my lovèd lord, I do not come to chide: my jealousy! I am to learn what that Italian means. You are as welcome to these longing arms As I to you a virgin. _Brach._ O, your breath! Out upon sweet-meats and continued physic,-- The plague is in them! _Isab._ You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected cassia or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much withered. My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns Show in a helmet lovely; but on me, In such a peaceful interview, methinks They are too-too roughly knit. _Brach._ O, dissemblance! Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt The trick of impudent baseness, to complain Unto your kindred? _Isab._ Never, my dear lord. _Brach._ Must I be hunted out? or was't your trick To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome, That must supply our discontinuance? _Isab._ I pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death Turn to your ancient pity, though not love. _Brach._ Because your brother is the corpulent duke, That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortly Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis, But it shall rest upon record! I scorn him Like a shaved Polack[36] all his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe; he's a discreet fellow When he is made up in his robes of state. Your brother, the great duke, because h'as galleys, And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat, (Now all the hellish Furies take his soul!) First made this match: accursèd be the priest That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue! _Isab._ O, too-too far you have cursed! _Brach._ Your hand I'll kiss; This is the latest ceremony of my love. Henceforth I'll never lie with thee; by this, This wedding-ring, I'll ne'er more lie with thee: And this divorce shall be as truly kept As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well: Our sleeps are severed. _Isab._ Forbid it, the sweet union Of all things blessèd! why, the saints in Heaven Will knit their brows at that. _Brach._ Let not thy love Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied With my repentance; let thy brother rage Beyond a horrid tempest or sea-fight, My vow is fixèd. _Isab._ O my winding-sheet! Now shall I need thee shortly.--Dear my lord, Let me hear once more what I would not hear: Never? _Brach._ Never.