Lodo. With other devilish 'pothecary stuff,
A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear?
Gas. This is Count Lodovico.
Lodo. This, Gasparo:
And thou shalt die like a poor rogue.
Gas. And stink
Like a dead fly-blown dog.
Lodo. And be forgotten
Before the funeral sermon.
Brach. Vittoria! Vittoria!
Lodo. Oh, the cursed devil
Comes to himself a gain! we are undone.
Gas. Strangle him in private. [Enter Vittoria and the Attendants.
What? Will you call him again to live in treble torments?
For charity, for christian charity, avoid the chamber.
Lodo. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love knot
Sent from the Duke of Florence. [Brachiano is strangled.
Gas. What, is it done?