_Flam._ Armorer! where's the armorer? _Brach._ Tear off my beaver. _Flam._ Are you hurt, my lord? _Brach._ O, my brain's on fire! _Enter_ Armorer. The helmet is poisoned. _Armorer._ My lord, upon my soul,-- _Brach._ Away with him to torture! There are some great ones that have hand in this, And near about me. _Vit. Cor._ O my loved lord! poisoned! _Flam._ Remove the bar. Here's unfortunate revels! Call the physicians. _Enter two_ Physicians. A plague upon you! We have too much of your cunning here already: I fear the ambassadors are likewise poisoned. _Brach._ O, I am gone already! the infection Flies to the brain and heart. O thou strong heart! There's such a covenant 'tween the world and it, They're loth to break. _Giov._ O my most lovèd father! _Brach._ Remove the boy away.-- Where's this good woman?--Had I infinite worlds, They were too little for thee: must I leave thee?-- What say you, screech-owls, is the venom mortal? _1st Phys._ Most deadly. _Brach._ Most corrupted politic hangman, You kill without book; but your art to save Fails you as oft as great men's needy friends. I that have given life to offending slaves And wretched murderers, have I not power To lengthen mine own a twelvemonth?-- Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee. This unction's sent from the great Duke of Florence. _Fran. de Med._ Sir, be of comfort. _Brach._ O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin To sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded comet Stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl Beats not against thy casement; the hoarse wolf Scents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes. _Vit. Cor._ I am lost for ever. _Brach._ How miserable a thing it is to die Mongst women howling! _Enter_ LODOVICO _and_ GASPARO, _in the habit of_ Capuchins. What are those? _Flam._ Franciscans: They have brought the extreme unction. _Brach._ On pain of death, let no man name death to me: It is a word infinitely terrible. Withdraw into our cabinet. [_Exeunt all except_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ FLAMINEO. _Flam._ To see what solitariness is about dying princes! as heretofore they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made great houses unhospitable, so now, O justice! where are their flatterers now? flatterers are but the shadows of princes' bodies; the least thick cloud makes them invisible. _Fran. de Med._ There's great moan made for him. _Flam._ Faith, for some few hours salt-water will run most plentifully in every office o' the court: but, believe it, most of them do but weep over their stepmothers' graves. _Fran. de Med._ How mean you? _Flam._ Why, they dissemble; as some men do that live within compass o' the verge. _Fran. de Med._ Come, you have thrived well under him.