a politic madman.

Enter Giovanni, and Count Lodovico

Fran. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black!

Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you
In virtue, and you must imitate me
In colours of your garments. My sweet mother
Is----

Fran. How? where?

Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I 'll not tell you,
For I shall make you weep.

Fran. Is dead?

Giov. Do not blame me now,
I did not tell you so.

Lodo. She 's dead, my lord.

Fran. Dead!

Mont. Bless'd lady, thou art now above thy woes!
Will 't please your lordships to withdraw a little?

Giov. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat,
Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry,
As we that live?

Fran. No, coz; they sleep.

Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!
I have not slept these six nights. When do they wake?

Fran. When God shall please.

Giov. Good God, let her sleep ever!
For I have known her wake an hundred nights,
When all the pillow where she laid her head
Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir;
I 'll tell you how they have us'd her now she 's dead:
They wrapp'd her in a cruel fold of lead,
And would not let me kiss her.

Fran. Thou didst love her?

Giov. I have often heard her say she gave me suck,
And it should seem by that she dearly lov'd me,
Since princes seldom do it.

Fran. Oh, all of my poor sister that remains!
Take him away for God's sake! [Exit Giovanni.

Mont. How now, my lord?

Fran. Believe me, I am nothing but her grave;
And I shall keep her blessed memory
Longer than thousand epitaphs.

SCENE III

Enter Flamineo as distracted, Marcello, and Lodovico

Flam. We endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel,
Till pain itself make us no pain to feel.
Who shall do me right now? is this the end of service? I'd rather go
weed garlic; travel through France, and be mine own ostler; wear
sheep-skin linings, or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into
the list of the forty thousand pedlars in Poland. [Enter Savoy
Ambassador.] Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice,
built upon the pox as well as one pines, ere I had served Brachiano!

Savoy Ambass. You must have comfort.

Flam. Your comfortable words are like honey: they relish well in your
mouth that 's whole, but in mine that 's wounded, they