Aur. A most sad truth.
Men. O God, O God! how we dull honest souls,
Heavy-brain’d men, are swallow’d in the bogs
Of a deceitful ground! whilst nimble bloods,
Light-jointed spirits speed;[445] cut good men’s throats,
And ’scape. Alas, I am too honest for this age,
Too full of fleam and heavy steadiness;
Stood still whilst this slave cast a noose about me; 130
Nay, then to stand in honour of him and her,
Who had even slic’d my heart!
Aur. Come, I did err,
And am most sorry I did err.
Men. Why, we are both but dead: the duke hates us;
And those whom princes do once groundly hate,
Let them provide to die, as sure as fate.
Prevention is the heart of policy.
Aur. Shall we murder him?
Men. Instantly?
Aur. Instantly; before he casts a plot, 140
Or further blaze my honour’s much-known blot,
Let’s murder him.
Men. I would do much for you: will ye marry me?
Aur. I’ll make thee duke. We are of Medicis;
Florence our friend; in court my faction
Not meanly strengthful; the duke then dead;
We well prepar’d for change; the multitude
Irresolutely reeling; we in force;
Our party seconded; the kingdom maz’d;
No doubt of swift success all shall be grac’d. 150
Men. You do confirm me; we are resolute:
To-morrow look for change; rest confident.
’Tis now about the immodest waist of night:
The mother of moist dew with pallid light
Spreads gloomy shades about the numbèd earth.
Sleep, sleep, whilst we contrive our mischief’s birth.
This man I’ll get inhum’d. Farewell: to bed;
Ay, kiss thy[446] pillow, dream the duke is dead.
So, so, good night.