Fran. How is it with the duke?
Lodo. Most deadly ill.
He 's fallen into a strange distraction:
He talks of battles and monopolies,
Levying of taxes; and from that descends
To the most brain-sick language. His mind fastens
On twenty several objects, which confound
Deep sense with folly. Such a fearful end
May teach some men that bear too lofty crest,
Though they live happiest yet they die not best.
He hath conferr'd the whole state of the dukedom
Upon your sister, till the prince arrive
At mature age.
Flam. There 's some good luck in that yet.
Fran. See, here he comes.
[Enter Brachiano, presented in a bed, Vittoria and others.
There 's death in 's face already.
Vit. Oh, my good lord!
Brach. Away, you have abus'd me:
[These speeches are several kinds of distractions, and in the action
should appear so.
You have convey'd coin forth our territories,
Bought and sold offices, oppress'd the poor,
And I ne'er dreamt on 't. Make up your accounts,
I 'll now be mine own steward.
Flam. Sir, have patience.
Brach.
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