Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder. Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee But one.
Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then.
Fran. True: Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution, Shall ne'er do so by thee.
Brach. Spit thy poison.
Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle. Look to 't, for our anger Is making thunderbolts.
Brach. Thunder! in faith, They are but crackers.
Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon.
Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds, And gunpowder in thy nostrils.
Fran. Better that, Than change perfumes for plasters.
Brach. Pity on thee! 'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd, Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee, Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.
Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further Without a milder limit.
Fran. Willingly.
Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait A lion thus?
Mont. My lord!
Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir.
Fran. We send unto the duke for conference 'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke Is not at home: we come ourself in person; Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear When Tiber to each prowling passenger Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord-- 'Bout moulting time I mean--we shall be certain To find you sure enough, and speak with you.
Brach. Ha!
Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle. But to express the sonnet by natural reason, [Enter Giovanni. When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.
Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion Shall end the difference between you both; Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords, What hopes you store in him; this is a casket For both your crowns, and should be held like dear. Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know It is a more direct and even way, To train to virtue those of princely blood, By examples than by precepts: if by examples, Whom should he rather strive to imitate Than his own father? be his pattern then, Leave him for a stock of virtue that may last, Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast.
Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier?
Giov. Give me a pike.
Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin?
Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord, Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me, Might not a child of good discretion Be leader to an army?
Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince Of good discretion might.
Giov. Say you so? Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general Should not endanger his own person oft; So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback, Like a Danske drummer,--Oh, 'tis excellent!-- He need not fight! methinks his horse as well Might lead an army for him. If I live, I 'll charge the French foe in the very front Of all my troops, the foremost man.
Fran. What! what!
Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow, But bid them follow me.
Brach. Forward lapwing! He flies with the shell on 's head.
Fran. Pretty cousin!
Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war, All prisoners that I take, I will set free, Without their ransom.
Fran. Ha! without their ransom! How then will you reward your soldiers, That took those prisoners for you?
Giov. Thus, my lord: I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widows That falls that year.
Fran. Why then, the next year following, You 'll have no men to go with you to war.
Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war, And then the men will follow.
Mont. Witty prince!
Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast. Come, you and I are friends.