_Fran. de Med._ Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn You said should charm your lord? now, horns upon thee, For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow And take your chamber. _Isab._ No, sir, I'll presently to Padua; I will not stay a minute. _Mont._ O good madam! _Brach._ 'Twere best to let her have her humour: Some half day's journey will bring down her stomach, And then she'll turn in post. _Fran. de Med._ To see her come To my lord cardinal for a dispensation Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter. _Isab._ Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break: Those are the killing griefs which dare not speak. [_Exit._ _Re-enter_ MARCELLO _with_ CAMILLO. _Mar._ Camillo's come, my lord. _Fran. de Med._ Where's the commission? _Mar._ 'Tis here. _Fran. de Med._ Give me the signet. [FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, MONTICELSO, CAMILLO, _and_ MARCELLO _retire to the back of the stage._ _Flam._ My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium:[38] the cantharides, which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning. _Brach._ About the murder? _Flam._ They are sending him to Naples, but I'll send him to Candy. _Enter_ Doctor. Here's another property too. _Brach._ O, the doctor! _Flam._ A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a _non plus_. _Doc._ And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colourable execution. _Flam._ He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded, for his master-piece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin. _Brach._ O, Saint Anthony's fire. _Doc._ Your secretary is merry, my lord. _Flam._ O thou cursed antipathy to nature!--Look, his eye's bloodshed, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with.--Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable loathsome[39] gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples! _Brach._ No more.--I must employ thee, honest doctor: You must to Padua, and by the way, Use some of your skill for us. _Doc._ Sir, I shall. _Brach._ But, for Camillo? _Flam._ He dies this night, by such a politic strain, Men shall suppose him by's own engine slain. But for your duchess' death-- _Doc._ I'll make her sure. _Brach._ Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.