_Brach._ Come, come, let's see your cabinet, discover Your treasury of love-letters. Death and Furies! I'll see them all. _Vit. Cor._ Sir, upon my soul, I have not any. Whence was this directed? _Brach._ Confusion on your politic ignorance! You are reclaimed,[72] are you? I'll give you the bells, And let you fly to the devil. _Flam._ Ware hawk, my lord. _Vit. Cor._ "Florence!" this is some treacherous plot, my lord: To me he ne'er was lovely, I protest, So much as in my sleep. _Brach._ Right! they are plots. Your beauty! O, ten thousand curses on't! How long have I beheld the devil in crystal![73] Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice, With music and with fatal yokes of flowers, To my eternal ruin. Woman to man Is either a god or a wolf. _Vit. Cor._ My lord,-- _Brach._ Away! We'll be as differing as two adamants; The one shall shun the other. What, dost weep? Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade, Ye'd furnish all the Irish funerals With howling past wild Irish. _Flam._ Fie, my lord! _Brach._ That hand, that cursèd hand, which I have wearied With doting kisses!--O my sweetest duchess, How lovely art thou now!--My loose thoughts Scatter like quicksilver: I was bewitched; For all the world speaks ill of thee. _Vit. Cor._ No matter: I'll live so now, I'll make that world recant; And change her speeches. You did name your duchess. _Brach._ Whose death God pardon! _Vit. Cor._ Whose death God revenge On thee, most godless duke! _Flam._ Now for two whirlwinds. _Vit. Cor._ What have I gained by thee but infamy? Thou hast stained the spotless honour of my house, And frighted thence noble society: Like those, which, sick o' the palsy, and retain Ill-scenting foxes 'bout them, are still shunned By those of choicer nostrils. What do you call this house? Is this your palace? did not the judge style it A house of penitent whores? who sent me to it? Who hath the honour to advance Vittoria To this incontinent college? is't not you? Is't not your high preferment? Go, go, brag How many ladies you have undone like me. Fare you well, sir; let me hear no more of you: I had a limb corrupted to an ulcer, But I have cut it off; and now I'll go Weeping to Heaven on crutches. For your gifts, I will return them all; and I do wish That I could make you full executor To all my sins. O, that I could toss myself Into a grave as quickly! for all thou art worth I'll not shed one tear more,--I'll burst first. [_She throws herself upon a bed._ _Brach._ I have drunk Lethe.--Vittoria! My dearest happiness! Vittoria! What do you ail, my love? why do you weep? _Vit. Cor._ Yes, I now weep poniards, do you see? _Brach._ Are not those matchless eyes mine? _Vit. Cor._ I had rather They were not matchless. _Brach._ Is not this lip mine? _Vit. Cor._ Yes; thus to bite it off, rather than give it thee.