_Ant._ Indeed, madam, I do not love the fruit. _Duch._ Sir, you are loth To rob us of our dainties: 'tis a delicate fruit; They say they are restorative. _Bos._ 'Tis a pretty art, This grafting. _Duch._ 'Tis so; bettering of nature. _Bos._ To make a pippin grow upon a crab, A damson on a blackthorn.--[_Aside._] How greedily she eats them! A whirlwind strike off these bawd farthingales! For, but for that and the loose-bodied gown, I should have discovered apparently The young springal[119] cutting a caper in her belly. _Duch._ I thank you, Bosola: they are right good ones, If they do not make me sick. _Ant._ How now, madam! _Duch._ This green fruit and my stomach are not friends: How they swell me! _Bos._ [_Aside._] Nay, you are too much swelled already. _Duch._ O, I am in an extreme cold sweat! _Bos._ I am very sorry. _Duch._ Lights to my chamber!--O good Antonio, I fear I am undone! _Delio._ Lights there, lights! [_Exeunt_ DUCHESS _and_ Ladies.--_Exit, on the other side_, BOSOLA.] _Ant._ O my most trusty Delio, we are lost! I fear she's fall'n in labour; and there's left No time for her remove. _Delio._ Have you prepared Those ladies to attend her? and procured That politic safe conveyance for the midwife Your duchess plotted? _Ant._ I have. _Delio._ Make use, then, of this forced occasion: Give out that Bosola hath poisoned her With these apricocks; that will give some colour For her keeping close. _Ant._ Fie, fie, the physicians Will then flock to her. _Delio._ For that you may pretend She'll use some prepared antidote of her own, Lest the physicians should re-poison her. _Ant._ I am lost in amazement: I know not what to think on't. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--_A Hall in the same Palace._ _Enter_ BOSOLA. _Bos._ So, so, there's no question but her techiness and most vulturous eating of the apricocks are apparent signs of breeding. _Enter an_ Old Lady. Now? _Old Lady._ I am in haste, sir. _Bos._ There was a young waiting-woman had a monstrous desire to see the glass-house-- _Old Lady._ Nay, pray let me go. _Bos._ And it was only to know what strange instrument it was should swell up a glass to the fashion of a woman's belly. _Old Lady._ I will hear no more of the glass-house. You are still abusing women? _Bos._ Who, I? no; only, by the way now and then, mention your frailties. The orange-tree bears ripe and green fruit and blossoms all together; and some of you give entertainment for pure love, but more for more precious reward. The lusty spring smells well; but drooping autumn tastes well. If we have the same golden showers that rained in the time of Jupiter the thunderer, you have the same Danäes still, to hold up their laps to receive them. Didst thou never study the mathematics? _Old Lady._ What's that, sir?