_Bos._ Will you make yourself a mercenary herald, Rather to examine men's pedigrees than virtues? You shall want him: For know an honest statesman to a prince Is like a cedar planted by a spring; The spring bathes the tree's root, the grateful tree Rewards it with his shadow: you have not done so. I would sooner swim to the Bermoothes[128] on Two politicians' rotten bladders, tied Together with an intelligencer's heart-string, Than depend on so changeable a prince's favour. Fare thee well, Antonio! since the malice of the world Would needs down with thee, it cannot be said yet That any ill happened unto thee, considering thy fall Was accompanied with virtue. _Duch._ O, you render me excellent music! _Bos._ Say you? _Duch._ This good one that you speak of is my husband. _Bos._ Do I not dream! can this ambitious age Have so much goodness in't as to prefer A man merely for worth, without these shadows Of wealth and painted honours? possible? _Duch._ I have had three children by him. _Bos._ Fortunate lady! For you have made your private nuptial bed The humble and fair seminary of peace. No question but many an unbeneficed scholar Shall pray for you for this deed, and rejoice That some preferment in the world can yet Arise from merit. The virgins of your land That have no dowries shall hope your example Will raise them to rich husbands. Should you want Soldiers, 'twould make the very Turks and Moors Turn Christians, and serve you for this act. Last, the neglected poets of your time, In honour of this trophy of a man, Raised by that curious engine, your white hand, Shall thank you, in your grave, for't; and make that More reverend than all the cabinets Of living princes. For Antonio. His fame shall likewise flow from many a pen, When heralds shall want coats to sell to men. _Duch._ As I taste comfort in this friendly speech, So would I find concealment. _Bos._ O, the secret of my prince, Which I will wear on the inside of my heart! _Duch._ You shall take charge of all my coin and jewels, And follow him; for he retires himself To Ancona. _Bos._ So. _Duch._ Whither, within few days, I mean to follow thee. _Bos._ Let me think: I would wish your grace to feign a pilgrimage To our Lady of Loretto, scarce seven leagues From fair Ancona; so may you depart Your country with more honour, and your flight Will seem a princely progress, retaining Your usual train about you. _Duch._ Sir, your direction Shall lead me by the hand. _Cari._ In my opinion, She were better progress to the baths at Lucca, Or go visit the Spa In Germany; for, if you will believe me, I do not like this jesting with religion, This feignèd pilgrimage.