Brach. Shall these eyes, Which have so long time dwelt upon your face, Be now put out?
Flam. No cruel landlady i' th' world, Which lends forth groats to broom-men, and takes use For them, would do 't. Hand her, my lord, and kiss her: be not like A ferret, to let go your hold with blowing.
Brach. Let us renew right hands.
Vit. Hence!
Brach. Never shall rage, or the forgetful wine, Make me commit like fault.
Flam. Now you are i' th' way on 't, follow 't hard.
Brach. Be thou at peace with me, let all the world Threaten the cannon.
Flam. Mark his penitence; Best natures do commit the grosses faults, When they 're given o'er to jealousy, as best wine, Dying, makes strongest vinegar. I 'll tell you: The sea 's more rough and raging than calm rivers, But not so sweet, nor wholesome. A quiet woman Is a still water under a great bridge; A man may shoot her safely.
Vit. O ye dissembling men!
Flam. We suck'd that, sister, From women's breasts, in our first infancy.
Vit. To add misery to misery!
Brach. Sweetest!
Vit. Am I not low enough? Ay, ay, your good heart gathers like a snowball, Now your affection 's cold.
Flam. Ud's foot, it shall melt To a heart again, or all the wine in Rome Shall run o' th' lees for 't.
Vit. Your dog or hawk should be rewarded better Than I have been. I 'll speak not one word more.
Flam. Stop her mouth With a sweet kiss, my lord. So, Now the tide 's turn'd, the vessel 's come about. He 's a sweet armful. Oh, we curl-hair'd men Are still most kind to women! This is well.
Brach. That you should chide thus!
Flam. Oh, sir, your little chimneys Do ever cast most smoke! I sweat for you. Couple together with as deep a silence, As did the Grecians in their wooden horse. My lord, supply your promises with deeds; You know that painted meat no hunger feeds.
Brach. Stay, ungrateful Rome----
Flam. Rome! it deserve to be call'd Barbary, For our villainous usage.
Brach. Soft; the same project which the Duke of Florence, (Whether in love or gallery I know not) Laid down for her escape, will I pursue.
Flam. And no time fitter than this night, my lord. The Pope being dead, and all the cardinals enter'd The conclave, for th' electing a new Pope; The city in a great confusion; We may attire her in a page's suit, Lay her post-horse, take shipping, and amain For Padua.
Brach. I 'll instantly steal forth the Prince Giovanni, And make for Padua. You two with your old mother, And young Marcello that attends on Florence, If you can work him to it, follow me: I will advance you all; for you, Vittoria, Think of a duchess' title.
Flam. Lo you, sister! Stay, my lord; I 'll tell you a tale. The crocodile, which lives in the River Nilus, hath a worm breeds i' th' teeth of 't, which puts it to extreme anguish: a little bird, no bigger than a wren, is barber-surgeon to this crocodile; flies into the jaws of 't, picks out the worm, and brings present remedy. The fish, glad of ease, but ungrateful to her that did it, that the bird may not talk largely of her abroad for non-payment, closeth her chaps, intending to swallow her, and so put her to perpetual silence. But nature, loathing such ingratitude, hath armed this bird with a quill or prick on the head, top o' th' which wounds the crocodile i' th' mouth, forceth her open her bloody prison, and away flies the pretty tooth-picker from her cruel patient.
Brach. Your application is, I have not rewarded The service you have done me.
Flam. No, my lord. You, sister, are the crocodile: you are blemish'd in your fame, my lord cures it; and though the comparison hold not in every particle, yet observe, remember, what good the bird with the prick i' th' head hath done you, and scorn ingratitude. It may appear to some ridiculous