_Flam._ O cunning devils! now I have tried your love, And doubled all your reaches.--I am not wounded; [_Rises._ The pistols held no bullets: 'twas a plot To prove your kindness to me; and I live To punish your ingratitude. I knew, One time or other, you would find a way To give me a strong potion.--O men That lie upon your death-beds, and are haunted With howling wives, ne'er trust them! they'll re-marry Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.-- How cunning you were to discharge! do you practise at the Artillery-yard?--Trust a woman! never, never! Brachiano be my precedent. We lay our souls to pawn to the devil for a little pleasure, and a woman makes the bill of sale. That ever man should marry! For one Hypermnestra[96] that saved her lord and husband, forty-nine of her sisters cut their husbands' throats all in one night: there was a shoal of virtuous horse-leeches!--Here are two other instruments. _Vit. Cor._ Help, help! _Enter_ LODOVICO, GASPARO, PEDRO, _and_ CARLO. _Flam._ What noise is that? ha! false keys i' the court! _Lod._ We have brought you a mask. _Flam._ A matachin,[97] it seems by your drawn swords. Churchmen turned revellers! _Carlo._ Isabella! Isabella! _Lod._ Do you know us now? _Flam._ Lodovico! and Gasparo! _Lod._ Yes; and that Moor the duke gave pension to Was the great Duke of Florence. _Vit. Cor._ O, we are lost! _Flam._ You shall not take justice from forth my hands,-- O, let me kill her!--I'll cut my safety Through your coats of steel. Fate's a spaniel, We cannot beat it from us. What remains now? Let all that do ill, take this precedent,-- Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent: And of all axioms this shall win the prize,-- 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise. _Gas._ Bind him to the pillar. _Vit. Cor._ O, your gentle pity! I have seen a blackbird that would sooner fly To a man's bosom, than to stay the gripe Of the fierce sparrowhawk. _Gas._ Your hope deceives you. _Vit. Cor._ If Florence be i' the court, would he would kill me! _Gas._ Fool! princes give rewards with their own hands, But death or punishment by the hands of others. _Lod._ Sirrah, you once did strike me: I'll strike you Into the centre. _Flam._ Thou'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman, Not like a noble fellow; for thou see'st I cannot strike again. _Lod._ Dost laugh? _Flam._ Would'st have me die, as I was born, in whining? _Gas._ Recommend yourself to Heaven. _Flam._ No, I will carry mine own commendations thither. _Lod._ O, could I kill you forty times a day, And use't four year together, 'twere too little! Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on?