Hip. So, so, all's as it should be, y'are yourself.
Ven. How that great villain puts me to my shifts!
Hip. He that did lately in disguise reject thee,
Shall, now thou art thyself, as much respect thee.
Ven. 'Twill be the quainter fallacy. But, brother,
'Sfoot, what use will he put me to now, think'st thou?
Hip. Nay, you must pardon me in that: I know not.
He has some employment for you: but what 'tis,
He and his secretary (the devil) know best.
Ven. Well, I must suit my tongue to his desires,
What colour soe'er they be; hoping at last
To pile up all my wishes on his breast.
Hip. Faith, brother, he himself shows the way.
Ven. Now the duke is dead, the realm is clad in clay.
His death being not yet known, under his name
The people still are governed. Well, thou his son
Art not long-lived: thou shalt not joy his death.
To kill thee, then, I should most honour thee;
For 'twould stand firm in every man's belief,
Thou'st a kind child, and only died'st with grief.
Hip. You fetch about well; but let's talk in present.
How will you appear in fashion different,
As well as in apparel, to make all things possible?
If you be but once tripped, we fall for ever.
It is not the least policy to be doubtful;
You must change tongue: familiar was your first.
Ven. Why, I'll bear me in some strain of melancholy,
And string myself with heavy-sounding wire,
Like such an instrument, that speaks merry things sadly.
Hip. Then 'tis as I meant;
I gave you out at first in discontent.
Ven. I'll tune myself, and then—
Hip. 'Sfoot, here he comes. Hast thought upon't?
Ven. Salute him; fear not me.
Enter Lussurioso.
Lus. Hippolito!
Hip. Your lordship—
Lus. What's he yonder?
Hip. 'Tis Vendice, my discontented brother,
Whom, 'cording to your will, I've brought to court.
Lus. Is that thy brother? Beshrew me, a good presence;
I wonder he has been from the court so long.
Come nearer.
Hip. Brother! Lord Lussurioso, the duke's son.
Lus. Be more near to us; welcome; nearer yet.
Ven. How don you? gi' you good den.
[Takes off his hat and bows.
Lus. We thank thee.
How strangely such a coarse homely salute
Shows in the palace, where we greet in fire,
Nimble and desperate tongues! should we name
God in a salutation, 'twould ne'er be stood on;—Heaven!
Tell me, what has made thee so melancholy?
Ven. Why, going to law.
Lus. Why, will that make a man melancholy?
Ven. Yes, to look long upon ink and black buckram. I went me to law in anno quadragesimo secundo, and I waded out of it in anno sexagesimo tertio.
Lus. What, three-and-twenty years in law?
Ven. I have known those that have been five-and-fifty, and all about pullen[222] and pigs.