rried,
And should beget more, and those children
Make fireworks like their father? So say I;
Only I apply it to your wife;
Her issue, should not providence prevent it,
Would make both nature, time, and man repent it.

Mont. Look you, cousin,
Go, change the air for shame; see if your absence
Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello
Is chosen with you joint commissioner,
For the relieving our Italian coast
From pirates.

Marc. I am much honour'd in 't.

Cam. But, sir,
Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sprouted
Greater than those are shed.

Mont. Do not fear it;
I 'll be your ranger.

Cam. You must watch i' th' nights;
Then 's the most danger.

Fran. Farewell, good Marcello:
All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish
Bring you a-shipboard.

Cam. Were I not best, now I am turn'd soldier,
Ere that I leave my wife, sell all she hath,
And then take leave of her?

Mont. I expect good from you,
Your parting is so merry.

Cam. Merry, my lord! a' th' captain's humour right,
I am resolved to be drunk this night. [Exeunt.

Fran. So, 'twas well fitted; now shall we discern
How his wish'd absence will give violent way
To Duke Brachiano's lust.

Mont. Why, that was it;
To what scorn'd purpose else should we make choice
Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides,
Count Lodowick, which was rumour'd for a pirate,
Is now in Padua.

Fran. Is 't true?

Mont. Most certain.
I have letters from him, which are suppliant
To work his quick repeal from banishment:
He means to address himself for pension
Unto our sister duchess.

Fran. Oh, 'twas well!
We shall not want his absence past six days:
I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run
Into notorious scandal; for there 's naught
In such cursed dotage, to repair his name,
Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.

Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable
To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,
For my revenge I 'd stake a brother's life,
That being wrong'd, durst not avenge himself.

Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.

Mont. Curse of greatness!
Sure he 'll not leave her?

Fran. There 's small pity in 't:
Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather,
Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.

SCENE II

Enter Brachiano, with one in the habi