may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineo
enter.] Void the chamber.
You are welcome; will you sit?--I pray, my lord,
Be you my orator, my heart 's too full;
I 'll second you anon.

Mont. Ere I begin,
Let me entreat your grace forgo all passion,
Which may be raised by my free discourse.

Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed.

Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends,
That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world
With a free scepter in your able hand,
And having to th' use of nature well applied
High gifts of learning, should in your prime age
Neglect your awful throne for the soft down
Of an insatiate bed. O my lord,
The drunkard after all his lavish cups
Is dry, and then is sober; so at length,
When you awake from this lascivious dream,
Repentance then will follow, like the sting
Plac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes
When fortune blasteth but a petty flower
Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth
But one pearl from their scepter; but alas!
When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame,
All princely titles perish with their name.

Brach. You have said, my lord----

Mont. Enough to give you taste
How far I am from flattering your greatness.

Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you?
Do not like young hawks fetch a course about;
Your game flies fair, and for you.

Fran. Do not fear it:
I 'll answer you in your own hawking phrase.
Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun
Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease,
Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.
You know Vittoria?

Brach. Yes.

Fran. You shift your shirt there,
When you retire from tennis?

Brach. Happily.

Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune,
Yet she wears cloth of tissue.

Brach. What of this?
Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal,
As part of her confession at next shrift,
And know from whence it sails?

Fran. She is your strumpet----

Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath,
And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine,
All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers,
Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,
Durst not supplant her.

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, whe