_Enter_ BOSOLA _with a letter._ _Bos._ You are happily o'erta'en. _Duch._ From my brother? _Bos._ Yes, from the Lord Ferdinand your brother All love and safety. _Duch._ Thou dost blanch mischief, Wouldst make it white. See, see, like to calm weather At sea before a tempest, false hearts speak fair To those they intend most mischief. [_Reads._ "Send Antonio to me; I want his head in a business." A politic equivocation! He doth not want your counsel, but your head; That is, he cannot sleep till you be dead. And here's another pitfall that's strewed o'er With roses; mark it, 'tis a cunning one: [_Reads._ "I stand engaged for your husband, for several debts at Naples: let not that trouble him; I had rather have his heart than his money:"-- And I believe so too. _Bos._ What do you believe? _Duch._ That he so much distrusts my husband's love, He will by no means believe his heart is with him Until he sees it: the devil is not cunning enough To circumvent us in riddles. _Bos._ Will you reject that noble and free league Of amity and love which I present you? _Duch._ Their league is like that of some politic kings, Only to make themselves of strength and power To be our after-ruin: tell them so. _Bos._ And what from you? _Ant._ Thus tell him; I will not come. _Bos._ And what of this? _Ant._ My brothers have dispersed Blood-hounds abroad; which till I hear are muzzled, No truce, though hatched with ne'er such politic skill, Is safe, that hangs upon our enemies' will. I'll not come at them. _Bos._ This proclaims your breeding: Every small thing draws a base mind to fear, As the adamant draws iron. Fare you well, sir: You shall shortly hear from's. [_Exit._ _Duch._ I suspect some ambush: Therefore by all my love I do conjure you To take your eldest son, and fly towards Milan. Let us not venture all this poor remainder In one unlucky bottom. _Ant._ You counsel safely. Best of my life, farewell, since we must part: Heaven hath a hand in't; but no otherwise Than as some curious artist takes in sunder A clock or watch, when it is out of frame, To bring't in better order. _Duch._ I know not which is best, To see you dead, or part with you.--Farewell, boy: Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding To know thy misery; for all our wit And reading brings us to a truer sense Of sorrow.--In the eternal church, sir, I do hope we shall not part thus. _Ant._ O, be of comfort! Make patience a noble fortitude, And think not how unkindly we are used: Man, like to cassia, is proved best being bruised. _Duch._ Must I, like a slave-born Russian, Account it praise to suffer tyranny? And yet, O Heaven, thy heavy hand is in't! I have seen my little boy oft scourge his top, And compared myself to't: naught made me e'er Go right but Heaven's scourge-stick.