Fran. Oh, 'twas well!
We shall not want his absence past six days:
I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run
Into notorious scandal; for there 's naught
In such cursed dotage, to repair his name,
Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.
Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable
To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,
For my revenge I 'd stake a brother's life,
That being wrong'd, durst not avenge himself.
Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.
Mont. Curse of greatness!
Sure he 'll not leave her?
Fran. There 's small pity in 't:
Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather,
Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.
SCENE II
Enter Brachiano, with one in the habit of a conjurer
Brach. Now, sir, I claim your promise: 'tis dead midnight,
The time prefix'd to show me by your art,
How the intended murder of Camillo,
And our loath'd duchess, grow to action.
Conj. You have won me by your bounty to a deed
I do not often practise. Some there are,
Which by sophistic tricks, aspire that name
Which I would gladly lose, of necromancer;
As some that use to juggle upon cards,
Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat;
Others that raise up their confederate spirits
'Bout windmills, and endanger their own necks
For making of a squib; and some there are
Will keep a curtal to show juggling tricks,
And give out 'tis a spirit; besides these,
Such a whole ream of almanac-makers, figure-flingers,
Fellows, indeed that only live by stealth,
Since they do merely lie about stol'n goods,
They 'd make men think the devil were fast and loose,
With speaking fustian Latin. Pray, sit down;
Put on this nightcap, sir, 'tis charmed; and now
I 'll show you, by my strong commanding art,
The circumstance that breaks your duchess' heart.
A Dumb Show