O woman's poor revenge,
Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep;
No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear
To fawn on your injustice: bear me hence
Unto this house of--what's your mitigating title?
Mont. Of convertites.
Vit. It shall not be a house of convertites;
My mind shall make it honester to me
Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable
Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal.
Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite,
Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light. [Exit.
Enter Brachiano
Brach. Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands
In a friend's grave together; a fit place,
Being th' emblem of soft peace, t' atone our hatred.
Fran. Sir, what 's the matter?
Brach. I will not chase more blood from that lov'd cheek;
You have lost too much already; fare you well. [Exit.
Fran. How strange these words sound! what 's the interpretation?
Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the
duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit
a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour
for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70