_Flam._ [_Aside._] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions. Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in't: I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman. [_Exit._ _Enter_ GIOVANNI, Count LODOVICO, _and_ Attendant. _Fran. de Med._ How now, my noble cousin! what, in black! _Giov._ Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you In virtue, and you must imitate me In colours of your garments. My sweet mother Is-- _Fran. de Med._ How! where? _Giov._ Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I'll not tell you, For I shall make you weep. _Fran. de Med._ Is dead? _Giov._ Do not blame me now, I did not tell you so. _Lod._ She's dead, my lord. _Fran. de Med._ Dead! _Mont._ Blessed lady, thou are now above thy woes!-- Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little? [_Exeunt_ Ambassadors. _Giov._ What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat, Hear music, go a hunting, and be merry, As we that live? _Fran. de Med._ No, coz; they sleep. _Giov._ Lord, Lord, that I were dead! I have not slept these six nights.--When do they wake? _Fran. de Med._ When God shall please. _Giov._ Good God, let her sleep ever! For I have known her wake an hundred nights, When all the pillow where she laid her head Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir; I'll tell you how they have used her now she's dead: They wrapped her in a cruel fold of lead, And would not let me kiss her. _Fran. de Med._ Thou didst love her. _Giov._ I have often heard her say she gave me suck, And it should seem by that she dearly loved me, Since princes seldom do it. _Fran. de Med._ O, all of my poor sister that remains!-- Take him away, for God's sake! [_Exeunt_ GIOVANNI _and_ Attendant. _Mont._ How now, my lord! _Fran. de Med._ Believe me, I am nothing but her grave; And I shall keep her blessèd memory Longer than thousand epitaphs. [_Exeunt_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ MONTICELSO. _Re-enter_ FLAMINEO _as if distracted._ _Flam._ We endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel, Till pain itself make us no pain to feel. Who shall do me right now? is this the end of service? I'd rather go weed garlic; travel through France, and be mine own ostler; wear sheepskin linings, or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into the list of the forty thousand pedlers in Poland. _Re-enter_ Ambassadors. Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice, built upon the pox as well as on piles, ere I had served Brachiano! _Savoy Am._ You must have comfort.