Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha't:--how strong Imagination works! how she can frame Things which are not! Methinks she stands afore me, And by the quick idea of my mind, Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture. Thought, as a subtle juggler, makes us deem Things supernatural, which yet have cause Common as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy.-- How cam'st thou by thy death?--How idle am I To question mine own idleness!--Did ever Man dream awake till now?--Remove this object; Out of my brain with't: what have I to do With tombs, or death-beds, funerals, or tears, That have to meditate upon revenge? [_Exit_ Ghost. So, now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story: Statesmen think often they see stranger sights Than madmen. Come, to this weighty business: My tragedy must have some idle mirth in't, Else it will never pass. I am in love, In love with Corombona; and my suit Thus halts to her in verse.--[_Writes._ I have done it rarely: O the fate of princes! I am so used to frequent flattery, That, being alone, I now flatter myself: But it will serve; 'tis sealed. _Enter_ Servant. Bear this To the house of convertites, and watch your leisure To give it to the hands of Corombona, Or to the matron, when some followers Of Brachiano may be by. Away! [_Exit_ Servant. He that deals all by strength, his wit is shallow: When a man's head goes through, each limb will follow. The engine for my business, bold Count Lodowick: 'Tis gold must such an instrument procure; With empty fist no man doth falcons lure. Brachiano, I am now fit for thy encounter: Like the wild Irish, I'll ne'er think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head. _Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo._[67] [_Exit._ ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE I.--_A Room in the House of Convertites._ _Enter the_ Matron and FLAMINEO. _Matron._ Should it be known the duke hath such recourse To your imprisoned sister, I were like To incur much damage by it. _Flam._ Not a scruple: The Pope lies on his death-bed, and their heads Are troubled now with other business Then guarding of a lady. _Enter_ Servant. _Serv._ Yonder's Flamineo in conference With the matrona.--Let me speak with you; I would entreat you to deliver for me This letter to the fair Vittoria. _Matron._ I shall, sir. _Serv._ With all care and secrecy: Hereafter you shall know me, and receive Thanks for this courtesy. [_Exit._ _Flam._ How now! what's that? _Matron._ A letter. _Flam._ To my sister? I'll see't delivered. _Enter_ BRACHIANO. _Brach._ What's that you read, Flamineo? _Flam._ Look. _Brach._ Ha! [_Reads_.] "To the most unfortunate, his best respected Vittoria."-- Who was the messenger? _Flam._ I know not. _Brach._ No! who sent it?