_Delio._ Believe it, 'Tis but the shadow of your fear, no more: How superstitiously we mind our evils! The throwing down salt, or crossing of a hare. Bleeding at nose, the stumbling of a horse, Or singing of a cricket, are of power To daunt whole man in us. Sir, fare you well: I wish you all the joys of a blessed father: And, for my faith, lay this unto your breast,-- Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best. [_Exit._ _Enter_ CARIOLA. _Cari._ Sir, you are the happy father of a son: Your wife commends him to you. _Ant._ Blessèd comfort!-- For Heaven' sake tend her well: I'll presently Go set a figure for's nativity. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III.--_The Court of the same Palace._ _Enter_ BOSOLA, _with a dark lantern._ _Bos._ Sure I did hear a woman shriek: list, ha! And the sound came, if I received it right, From the duchess' lodgings. There's some stratagem In the confining all our courtiers To their several wards: I must have part of it; My intelligence will freeze else. List, again! It may be 'twas the melancholy bird, Best friend of silence and of solitariness, The owl, that screamed so.--Ha! Antonio! _Enter_ ANTONIO. _Ant._ I heard some noise.--Who's there? what art thou? speak. _Bos._ Antonio, put not your face nor body To such a forced expression of fear: I am Bosola, your friend. _Ant._ Bosola!-- [_Aside._] This mole does undermine me.--Heard you not A noise even now? _Bos._ From whence? _Ant._ From the duchess' lodging. _Bos._ Not I: did you? _Ant._ I did, or else I dreamed. _Bos._ Let's walk towards it. _Ant._ No: it may be 'twas But the rising of the wind. _Bos._ Very likely. Methinks 'tis very cold, and yet you sweat: You look wildly. _Ant._ I have been setting a figure For the duchess' jewels. _Bos._ Ah, and how falls your question? Do you find it radical? _Ant._ What's that to you? 'Tis rather to be questioned what design, When all men were commanded to their lodgings, Makes you a night-walker. _Bos._ In sooth, I'll tell you: Now all the court's asleep, I thought the devil Had least to do here; I came to say my prayers; And if it do offend you I do so, You are a fine courtier. _Ant._ [_Aside._] This fellow will undo me.-- You gave the duchess apricocks to-day: Pray Heaven they were not poisoned! _Bos._ Poisoned! A Spanish fig For the imputation. _Ant._ Traitors are ever confident Till they are discovered. There were jewels stol'n too: In my conceit, none are to be suspected More than yourself. _Bos._ You are a false steward. _Ant._ Saucy slave, I'll pull thee up by the roots. _Bos._ May be the ruin will crush you to pieces. _Ant._ You are an impudent snake indeed, sir: Are you scarce warm, and do you show your sting? You libel well, sir. _Bos._ No, sir: copy it out, And I will set my hand to't.