_Flam._ Ud's foot, you speak as if a man Should know what fowl is coffined in a baked meat Afore you cut it up. _Brach._ I'll open't, were't her heart.--What's here subscribed! "Florence!" this juggling is gross and palpable: I have found out the conveyance.--Read it, read it. _Flam. [Reads._] "Your tears I'll turn to triumphs, be but mine: Your prop is fall'n: I pity, that a vine, Which princes heretofore have longed to gather, Wanting supporters, now should fade and wither."-- Wine, i' faith, my lord, with lees would serve his turn.-- "Your sad imprisonment I'll soon uncharm, And with a princely uncontrollèd arm Lead you to Florence, where my love and care Shall hang your wishes in my silver hair."-- A halter on his strange equivocation!-- "Nor for my years return me the sad willow: Who prefer blossoms before fruit that's mellow?"-- Rotten, on my knowledge, with lying too long i' the bed-straw-- "And all the lines of age this line convinces, The gods never wax old, no more do princes."-- A pox on't, tear it; let's have no more atheists, for God's sake. _Brach._ Ud's death, I'll cut her into atomies, And let the irregular north wind sweep her up, And blow her into his nostrils! Where's this whore? _Flam._ That what do you call her? _Brach._ O, I could be mad, Prevent[68] the cursed disease[69] she'll bring me to, And tear my hair off! Where's this changeable stuff? _Flam._ O'er head and ears in water, I assure you: She is not for your wearing. _Brach._ No, you pander? _Flam._ What, me, my lord? am I your dog? _Brach._ A blood-hound: do you brave, do you stand me? _Flam._ Stand you! let those that have diseases run; I need no plasters. _Brach._ Would you be kicked? _Flam._ Would you have your neck broke? I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;[70] My shins must be kept whole. _Brach._ Do you know me? _Flam._ O, my lord, methodically: As in this world there are degrees of evils, So in this world there are degrees of devils. You're a great duke, I your poor secretary. I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian salad,[71] daily. _Brach._ Pander, ply your convoy, and leave your prating. _Flam._ All your kindness to me is like that miserable courtesy of Polyphemus to Ulysses; you reserve me to be devoured last: you would dig turfs out of my grave to feed your larks; that would be music to you. Come, I'll lead you to her. _Brach._ Do you face me? _Flam._ O, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool. _Enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA. _Brach._ Can you read, mistress? look upon that letter: There are no characters nor hieroglyphics; You need no comment: I am grown your receiver. God's precious! you shall be a brave great lady, A stately and advancèd whore. _Vit. Cor._ Say, sir?