Lodo. Storms are i' th' air, my lord;
I am too low to storm.
Mont. Wretched creature!
I know that thou art fashion'd for all ill,
Like dogs, that once get blood, they 'll ever kill.
About some murder, was 't not?
Lodo. I 'll not tell you:
And yet I care not greatly if I do;
Marry, with this preparation. Holy father,
I come not to you as an intelligencer,
But as a penitent sinner: what I utter
Is in confession merely; which, you know,
Must never be reveal'd.
Mont. You have o'erta'en me.
Lodo. Sir, I did love Brachiano's duchess dearly,
Or rather I pursued her with hot lust,
Though she ne'er knew on 't. She was poison'd;
Upon my soul she was: for which I have sworn
T' avenge her murder.
Mont. To the Duke of Florence?
Lodo. To him I have.
Mont. Miserable creature!
If thou persist in this, 'tis damnable.
Dost thou imagine, thou canst slide on blood,
And not be tainted with a shameful fall?
Or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree,
Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves,
And yet to prosper? Instruction to thee
Comes like sweet showers to o'er-harden'd ground;
They wet, but pierce not deep. And so I leave thee,
With all the furies hanging 'bout thy neck,
Till by thy penitence thou remove this evil,
In conjuring from thy breast that cruel devil. [Exit.
Lodo. I 'll give it o'er; he says 'tis damnable:
Besides I did expect his suffrage,
By reason of Camillo's death.
Enter Servant and Francisco