Brach. Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands
In a friend's grave together; a fit place,
Being th' emblem of soft peace, t' atone our hatred.
Fran. Sir, what 's the matter?
Brach. I will not chase more blood from that lov'd cheek;
You have lost too much already; fare you well. [Exit.
Fran. How strange these words sound! what 's the interpretation?
Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions. Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in 't; I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman.
Enter Giovanni, and Count Lodovico
Fran. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black!
Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you
In virtue, and you must imitate me
In colours of your garments. My sweet mother
Is——
Fran. How? where?
Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I 'll not tell you,
For I shall make you weep.