_Fran. de Med._ That's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected. As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon the seas, so some men i' the court seem colossuses in a chamber, who, if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies. _Flam._ Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal to lug me by the ears as his endeared minion. _Fran. de Med._ And thou mayst do the devil knows what villany. _Flam._ And safely. _Fran. de Med._ Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons, though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven, they go to the pot for't. _Flam._ I will now give you some politic instructions. The duke says he will give you a pension: that's but bare promise; get it under his hand. For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for three or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs and fresh plasters; but, after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserable courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one three quarters dead o' the rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again to endure more dogdays. [_Exit_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS. _Re-enter_ HORTENSIO _and_ ZANCHE, _with a_ Young Lord _and two others._ How now, gallants! what, are they ready for the barriers? _Young Lord._ Yes; the lords are putting on their armour. _Hort._ What's he? _Flam._ A new up-start; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew him, since he came to the court, smell worse of sweat than an under-tennis-court-keeper. _Hort._ Look you, yonder's your sweet mistress. _Flam._ Thou art my sworn brother: I'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villany. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears: but for fear of turning upon me and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil. _Hort._ I hear she claims marriage of thee. _Flam._ Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him,--Now, my precious gipsey. _Zanche._ Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats. _Flam._ Marry, I am the sounder lover: we have many wenches about the town heat too fast. _Hort._ What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then? _Flam._ Their satin cannot save them: I am confident They have a certain spice of the disease; For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas. _Zanche._ Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you love me.