Flam. To my sister? I'll see't delivered.
Enter Brachiano.
Brach. What's that you read, Flamineo?
Flam. Look.
Brach. Ha! [Reads.] "To the most unfortunate, his best respected Vittoria."—
Who was the messenger?
Flam. I know not.
Brach. No! who sent it?
Flam. Ud's foot, you speak as if a man
Should know what fowl is coffined in a baked meat
Afore you cut it up.
Brach. I'll open't, were't her heart.—What's here subscribed!
"Florence!" this juggling is gross and palpable:
I have found out the conveyance.—Read it, read it.
Flam. [Reads.] "Your tears I'll turn to triumphs, be but mine:
Your prop is fall'n: I pity, that a vine,
Which princes heretofore have longed to gather,
Wanting supporters, now should fade and wither."—
Wine, i' faith, my lord, with lees would serve his turn.—
"Your sad imprisonment I'll soon uncharm,
And with a princely uncontrollèd arm
Lead you to Florence, where my love and care
Shall hang your wishes in my silver hair."—
A halter on his strange equivocation!—
"Nor for my years return me the sad willow:
Who prefer blossoms before fruit that's mellow?"—
Rotten, on my knowledge, with lying too long i' the bed-straw—
"And all the lines of age this line convinces,
The gods never wax old, no more do princes."—
A pox on't, tear it; let's have no more atheists, for God's sake.
Brach. Ud's death, I'll cut her into atomies,
And let the irregular north wind sweep her up,
And blow her into his nostrils! Where's this whore?
Flam. That what do you call her?
Brach. O, I could be mad,
Prevent[68] the cursed disease[69] she'll bring me to,
And tear my hair off! Where's this changeable stuff?
Flam. O'er head and ears in water, I assure you:
She is not for your wearing.
Brach. No, you pander?
Flam. What, me, my lord? am I your dog?
Brach. A blood-hound: do you brave, do you stand me?
Flam. Stand you! let those that have diseases run;
I need no plasters.
Brach. Would you be kicked?
Flam. Would you have your neck broke?
I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;[70]
My shins must be kept whole.
Brach. Do you know me?
Flam. O, my lord, methodically:
As in this world there are degrees of evils,
So in this world there are degrees of devils.
You're a great duke, I your poor secretary.
I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian salad,[71] daily.
Brach. Pander, ply your convoy, and leave your prating.
Flam. All your kindness to me is like that miserable courtesy of Polyphemus to Ulysses; you reserve me to be devoured last: you would dig turfs out of my grave to feed your larks; that would be music to you. Come, I'll lead you to her.