_Gas._ Now there's mercury-- _Lod._ And copperas-- _Gas._ And quicksilver-- _Lod._ With other devilish pothecary stuff, A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear? _Gas._ This is Count Lodovico. _Lod._ This, Gasparo: And thou shalt die like a poor rogue. _Gas._ And stink Like a dead fly-blown dog. _Lod._ And be forgotten Before thy funeral sermon. _Brach._ Vittoria! Vittoria! _Lod_, O, the cursèd devil Comes to himself again! we are undone. _Gas._ Strangle him in private. _Enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _and_ Attendants. What, will you call him again To live in treble torments? for charity, For Christian charity, avoid the chamber. [_Exeunt_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _and_ Attendants. _Lod._ You would prate, sir? This is a true-love-knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. [_He strangles_ BRACHIANO. _Gas._ What, is it done? _Lod._ The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' the world, Though she had practised seven year at the pest-house, Could have done't quaintlier. _Re-enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _and_ Attendants. My lords, he's dead. _Omnes._ Rest to his soul! _Vit. Cor._ O me! this place is hell. [_Exit._ _Fran. de Med._ How heavily she takes it! _Flam._ O, yes, yes; Had women navigable rivers in their eyes, They would dispend them all: surely, I wonder Why we should wish more rivers to the city, When they sell water so good cheap. I'll tell thee, These are but moonish shades of griefs or fears; There's nothing sooner dry than women's tears. Why, here's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing. Court promises! let wise men count them cursed, For while you live, he that scores best pays worst. _Fran. de Med._ Sure, this was Florence' doing. _Flam._ Very likely. Those are found weighty strokes which come from the hand, But those are killing strokes which come from the head. O, the rare tricks of a Machiavelian! He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave, And buffet you to death: no, my quaint knave, He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing, As if you had swallowed down a pound of saffron. You see the feat, 'tis practised in a trice; To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice. _Fran. de Med._ Now have the people liberty to talk, And descant on his vices. _Flam._ Misery of princes, That must of force be censured by their slaves! Not only blamed for doing things are ill, But for not doing all that all men will: One were better be a thresher. Ud's death, I would fain speak with this duke yet. _Fran. de Med._ Now he's dead? _Flam._ I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths Will get to the speech of him, though forty devils Wait on him in his livery of flames, I'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand, Though I be blasted. [_Exit._