Ant. My lord, I bring good news. The Pope, on 's death bed,
At th' earnest suit of the great Duke of Florence,
Hath sign'd your pardon, and restor'd unto you——
Lodo. I thank you for your news. Look up again,
Flamineo, see my pardon.
Flam. Why do you laugh?
There was no such condition in our covenant.
Lodo. Why?
Flam. You shall not seem a happier man than I:
You know our vow, sir; if you will be merry,
Do it i' th' like posture, as if some great man
Sat while his enemy were executed:
Though it be very lechery unto thee,
Do 't with a crabbed politician's face.
Lodo. Your sister is a damnable whore.
Flam. Ha!
Lodo. Look you, I spake that laughing.
Flam. Dost ever think to speak again?
Lodo. Do you hear?
Wilt sell me forty ounces of her blood
To water a mandrake?