_Fran. de Med._ Excellent Lodovico! What, did you terrify him at the last gasp? _Lod._ Yes, and so idly, that the duke had like To have terrified us. _Fran. de Med._ How? _Lod._ You shall hear that hereafter. _Enter_ ZANCHE. See, yon's the infernal that would make up sport. Now to the revelation of that secret She promised when she fell in love with you. _Fran. de Med._ You're passionately met in this sad world. _Zanche._ I would have you look up, sir; these court-tears Claim not your tribute to them: let those weep That guiltily partake in the sad cause. I knew last night, by a sad dream I had, Some mischief would ensue; yet, to say truth, My dream most concerned you. _Lod._ Shall's fall a-dreaming? _Fran. de Med._ Yes; and for fashion sake I'll dream with her. _Zanche._ Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed. _Fran. de Med._ Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this light, I was a-dreamt on thee too; for methought I saw thee naked. _Zanche._ Fie, sir! As I told you, Methought you lay down by me. _Fran. de Med._ So dreamt I; And lest thou shouldst take cold, I covered thee With this Irish mantle. _Zanche._ Verily, I did dream You were somewhat bold with me: but to come to't-- _Lod._ How, how! I hope you will not go to't here. _Fran. de Med._ Nay, you must hear my dream out. _Zanche._ Well, sir, forth. _Fran. de Med._ When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laugh Exceedingly, methought. _Zanche._ Laugh! _Fran. de Med._ And cried'st out, The hair did tickle thee. _Zanche._ There was a dream indeed! _Lod._ Mark her, I prithee; she simpers like the suds A collier hath been washed in. _Zanche._ Come, sir, good fortune tends you. I did tell you I would reveal a secret: Isabella, The Duke of Florence' sister, was impoisoned By a fumed picture; and Camillo's neck Was broke by damned Flamineo, the mischance Laid on a vaulting-horse. _Fran. de Med._ Most strange! _Zanche._ Most true. _Lod._ The bed of snakes is broke. _Zanche._ I sadly do confess I had a hand In the black deed. _Fran. de Med._ Thou kept'st their counsel? _Zanche._ Right; For which, urged with contrition, I intend This night to rob Vittoria. _Lod._ Excellent penitence! Usurers dream on't while they sleep out sermons. _Zanche._ To further our escape, I have entreated Leave to retire me, till the funeral, Unto a friend i' the country: that excuse Will further our escape. In coin and jewels I shall at least make good unto your use An hundred thousand crowns. _Fran. de Med._ O noble wench! _Lod._ Those crowns we'll share. _Zanche._ It is a dowry, Methinks, should make that sun-burnt proverb false, And wash the Æthiop white. _Fran. de Med._ It shall. Away! _Zanche._ Be ready for our flight.