_Enter_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ MONTICELSO, _their_ Chancellor _and_ Register. _Fran. de Med._ You have dealt discreetly, to obtain the presence Of all the grave lieger[44] ambassadors, To hear Vittoria's trial. _Mont._ 'Twas not ill; For, sir, you know we have naught but circumstances To charge her with, about her husband's death: Their approbation, therefore, to the proofs Of her black lust shall make her infamous To all our neighbouring kingdoms. I wonder If Brachiano will be here. _Fran. de Med._ O fie. Twere impudence too palpable. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ FLAMINEO _and_ MARCELLO _guarded, and a_ Lawyer. _Law._ What, are you in by the week? so, I will try now whether thy wit be close prisoner. Methinks none should sit upon thy sister but old whore-masters. _Flam._ Or cuckolds; for your cuckold is your most terrible tickler of lechery. Whore-masters would serve; for none are judges at tilting but those that have been old tilters. _Law._ My lord duke and she have been very private. _Flam._ You are a dull ass; 'tis threatened they have been very public. _Law._ If it can be proved they have but kissed one another-- _Flam._ What then? _Law._ My lord cardinal will ferret them. _Flam._ A cardinal, I hope, will not catch conies. _Law._ For to sow kisses (mark what I say), to sow kisses is to reap lechery; and, I am sure, a woman that will endure kissing is half won. _Flam._ True, her upper part, by that rule: if you will win her nether part too, you know what follows. _Law._ Hark; the ambassadors are lighted. _Flam._ [_Aside_]. I do put on this feignèd garb of mirth To gull suspicion. _Mar._ O my unfortunate sister! I would my dagger-point had cleft her heart When she first saw Brachiano: you, 'tis said, Were made his engine and his stalking-horse, To undo my sister. _Flam._ I am a kind of path To her and mine own preferment. _Mar._ Your ruin. _Flam._ Hum! thou art a soldier, Follow'st the great duke, feed'st his victories, As witches do their serviceable spirits, Even with thy prodigal blood: what hast got, But, like the wealth of captains, a poor handful, Which in thy palm thou bear'st as men hold water? Seeking to gripe it fast, the frail reward Steals through thy fingers. _Mar._ Sir! _Flam._ Thou hast scarce maintenance To keep thee in fresh shamois.[45] _Mar._ Brother! _Flam._ Hear me:-- And thus, when we have even poured ourselves Into great fights, for their ambition Or idle spleen, how shall we find reward? But as we seldom find the misletoe Sacred to physic, or the builder oak, Without a mandrake by it; so in our quest of gain, Alas, the poorest of their forced dislikes At a limb proffers, but at heart it strikes! This is lamented doctrine. _Mar._ Come, come. _Flam._ When age shall turn thee White as a blooming hawthorn--