_Flam._ Faith, like a wolf in a woman's breast;[81] I have been fed with poultry: but, for money, understand me, I had as good a will to cozen him as e'er an officer of them all; but I had not cunning enough to do it. _Fran. de Med._ What didst thou think of him? faith, speak freely. _Flam._ He was a kind of statesman that would sooner have reckoned how many cannon-bullets he had discharged against a town, to count his expence that way, than how many of his valiant and deserving subjects he lost before it. _Fran. de Med._ O, speak well of the duke. _Flam._ I have done. Wilt hear some of my court-wisdom? To reprehend princes is dangerous; and to over-commend some of them is palpable lying. _Re-enter_ LODOVICO. _Fran. de Med._ How is it with the duke? _Lod._ Most deadly ill. He's fall'n into a strange distraction: He talks of battles and monopolies, Levying of taxes; and from that descends To the most brain-sick language. His mind fastens On twenty several objects, which confound Deep sense with folly. Such a fearful end May teach some men that bear too lofty crest, Though they live happiest, yet they die not best. He hath conferred the whole state of the dukedom Upon your sister, till the prince arrive At mature age. _Flam._ There's some good luck in that yet. _Fran. de Med._ See, here he comes. _Enter_ BRACHIANO, _presented in a bed,_[82] VITTORIA COROMBONA, GASPARO, _and_ Attendants. There's death in's face already. _Vit. Cor._ O my good lord! _Brach._ Away! you have abused me: [_These speeches are several kinds of distractions, and in the action should appear so._ You have conveyed coin forth our territories; Bought and sold offices, oppressed the poor, And I ne'er dreamt on't. Make up your accounts: I'll now be mine own steward. _Flam._ Sir, have patience. _Brach._ Indeed, I am to blame: For did you ever hear the dusky raven Chide blackness? or was't ever known the devil Railed against cloven creatures? _Vit. Cor._ O my lord! _Brach._ Let me have some quails to supper. _Flam._ Sir, you shall. _Brach._ No, some fried dog-fish; your quails feed on poison. That old dog-fox, that politician, Florence! I'll forswear hunting, and turn dog-killer: Rare! I'll be friends with him; for, mark you, sir, one dog Still sets another a-barking. Peace, peace! Yonder's a fine slave come in now. _Flam._ Where? _Brach._ Why, there, In a blue bonnet, and a pair of breeches With a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha! Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins, With pearls o' the head of them. Do not you know him? _Flam._ No, my lord. _Brach._ Why, 'tis the devil; I know him by a great rose[83] he wears on's shoe, To hide his cloven foot. I'll dispute with him; He's a rare linguist. _Vit. Cor._ My lord, here's nothing.