Pir. You speak like one that knows what virtue is,
And can love it.
Enter De Castro and Dessandro to them.
Des. I thank the duke; he has a right soul.
But, prythee, no more of these sad consolations;
They hang upon my heart like pond'rous weights
At trembling wires; or like the dull labourings
Of that clock, which groan'd out our dear father's
Fatal minute.
De C. I have done.
Des. I could chide this tame and phlegmy vapour
From my blood. Our passions melt into soft
Murmurs, like hollow springs:
The manhood of cold hinds would not be tempted
To this sense, but leap with rage into their eyes;
Brother, it would; and wake 'em into tempests.
A wretched fly would show its spleen.
De C. This anger will but show men, where you bleed,
And keep the wound still green.
Des. The scar will stick for ever.
O, the dark hypocrisy and juggling of our times!
Great men are slaves to slaves; and we are theirs:
The law's a tame wolf cowards and fools
May stroke with giving hands: while he shall
Couchant lie, and wag the tail; but show
His fangs at you and I. A noble wish
Is dangerous: is't not, my lord?
Pir. What, Dessandro?
Des. The vulgar's a kennel of black-mouth'd dogs,
That worry men's deserts and fame: my curse
Fester in their temples!
De C. Prythee, Dessandro, collect these scatter'd thoughts.