Flam. Would you have your neck broke?
I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;
My shins must be kept whole.
Brach. Do you know me?
Flam. Oh, 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 sallet, 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.
Brach. Do you face me?
Flam. Oh, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool.
Enter Vittoria to Brachiano and Flamineo
Brach. Can you read, mistress? look upon that letter:
There are no characters, nor hieroglyphics.
You need no comment; I am grown your receiver.
God's precious! you shall be a brave great lady,
A stately and advanced whore.
Vit. Say, sir?