_Fran. de Med._ Let the matrona of the convertites Be apprehended.--Fled! O, damnable! [_Exit_ Servant. How fortunate are my wishes! why, 'twas this I only laboured: I did send the letter To instruct him what to do. Thy fame, fond[78] duke, I first have poisoned; directed thee the way To marry a whore: what can be worse? This follows,-- The hand must act to drown the passionate tongue: I scorn to wear a sword and prate of wrong. _Enter_ MONTICELSO _in state._ _Mont. Concedimus vobis apostolicam benedictionem et remissionem peccatorum._ My lord reports Vittoria Corombona Is stol'n from forth the house of convertites By Brachiano, and they're fled the city. Now, though this be the first day of our state, We cannot better please the divine power Than to sequester from the holy church These cursèd persons. Make it therefore known, We do denounce excommunication Against them both: all that are theirs in Rome We likewise banish. Set on. [_Exeunt_ MONTICELSO, _his train_, Ambassadors, _&c._ _Fran. de Med._ Come, dear Lodovico; You have ta'en the sacrament to prosecute The intended murder. _Lod._ With all constancy. But, sir, I wonder you'll engage yourself In person, being a great prince. _Fran. de Med._ Divert me not. Most of his court are of my faction, And some are of my council. Noble friend, Our danger shall be like in this design: Give leave, part of the glory may be mine. [_Exeunt_ FRAN. DE MED. _and_ GASPARO. _Re-enter_ MONTICELSO. _Mont._ Why did the Duke of Florence with such care Labour your pardon? say. _Lod._ Italian beggars will resolve you that, Who, begging of an alms, bid those they beg of, Do good for their own sakes; or it may be, He spreads his bounty with a sowing hand, Like kings, who many times give out of measure, Not for desert so much, as for their pleasure. _Mont._ I know you're cunning. Come, what devil was that That you were raising? _Lod._ Devil, my lord! _Mont._ I ask you How doth the duke employ you, that his bonnet Fell with such compliment unto his knee, When he departed from you? _Lod._ Why, my lord, He told me of a resty Barbary horse Which he would fain have brought to the career, The sault, and the ring-galliard;[79] now, my lord, I have a rare French rider. _Mont._ Take you heed Lest the jade break your neck. Do you put me off With your wild horse-tricks? Sirrah, you do lie. O, thou'rt a foul black cloud, and thou dost threat A violent storm! _Lod._ Storms are i' the air, my lord: I am too low to storm. _Mont._ Wretched creature! I know that thou art fashioned for all ill, Like dogs that once get blood, they'll ever kill. About some murder? was't not?