_Zanche._ Alas! poor maids get more lovers than husbands: yet you may mistake my wealth. For, as when ambassadors are sent to congratulate princes, there's commonly sent along with them a rich present, so that, though the prince like not the ambassador's person nor words, yet he likes well of the presentment; so I may come to you in the same manner, and be better loved for my dowry than my virtue. _Fran. de Med._ I'll think on the motion. _Zanche._ Do: I'll now Detain you no longer. At your better leisure I'll tell you things shall startle your blood: Nor blame me that this passion I reveal; Lovers die inward that their flames conceal. [_Exit._ _Fran. de Med._ Of all intelligence this may prove the best: Sure, I shall draw strange fowl from this foul nest. [_Exit._ SCENE II.--_Another Apartment in the Same._ _Enter_ MARCELLO _and_ CORNELIA. _Cor._ I hear a whispering all about the court You are to fight: who is your opposite? What is the quarrel? _Mar._ 'Tis an idle rumour. _Cor._ Will you dissemble? sure, you do not well To fright me thus: you never look thus pale, But when you are most angry. I do charge you Upon my blessing,--nay, I'll call the duke, And he shall school you. _Mar._ Publish not a fear Which would convert to laughter: 'tis not so. Was not this crucifix my father's? _Cor._ Yes. _Mar._ I have heard you say, giving my brother suck, He took the crucifix between his hands, And broke a limb off. _Cor._ Yes; but 'tis mended. _Enter_ FLAMINEO. _Flam._ I have brought your weapon back. [_Runs_ MARCELLO _through._ _Cor._ Ha! O my horror! _Mar._ You have brought it home, indeed. _Cor._ Help! O, he's murdered! _Flam._ Do you turn your gall up? I'll to sanctuary, And send a surgeon to you. [_Exit._ _Enter_ CARLO, HORTENSIO, _and_ PEDRO. _Hort._ How! o' the ground! _Mar._ O mother, now remember what I told Of breaking of the crucifix! Farewell. There are some sins which Heaven doth duly punish In a whole family. This it is to rise By all dishonest means! Let all men know, That tree shall long time keep a steady foot Whose branches spread no wider than the root. [_Dies._ _Cor._ O my perpetual sorrow! _Hort._ Virtuous Marcello! He's dead.--Pray, leave him, lady: come, you shall. _Cor._ Alas, he is not dead; he's in a trance. Why, here's nobody shall get any thing by his death. Let me call him again, for God's sake! _Car._ I would you were deceived. _Cor._ O, you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! How many have gone away thus, for lack of tendance! Rear up's head, rear up's head: his bleeding inward will kill him. _Hort._ You see he is departed.