STEPHANO

Well, he shall not be, My Oedipus, I'll rather dwell in darkness. But my good Lord Tiberio, This Francisco, Is, on the sudden, stran ely raised. But how is his absence born? It becomes her Virtue, And does confirm, what was reported of her. It's strange. But see, her favourite: & accompanied, To your report. There is no contending. How coldly she receives it. How the Duke stands? And he repents it Madame. He hath paid the forfeit Of his offence, I'm sure, with such a sorrow, As, if it had been greater, would deserve A full remission. He, that at every stage keeps livery Mi stresses, The stallion of the State! If I were The Duke (I freely must confess my weakness) I should wear yellow breeches. Here he comes. Is this her privacy? Though with the hazard of a check, perhaps, This may go to the Duke. That a wise man, And what is more, a Prince, that may command, Should sue thus poorly, and treat with his wife, As she were a victorious enemy, At whose proud feet, himself, his State, and Country, Basely begged mercy. You shall, you are too found, And feed a pride that's swollen too big already, And surfeits with observance. Let my head answer it If I offend. She that you think a Saint, I sear may play the Devil. And he that hath so long ingrossed your favours, Though to be named with reverence, Lord Francisco, Who as you purpose, shall solicit for you, I think's too near her. It may be they confer of winning Lordship's, I'm sure he's private with her. What wicked woman, Sir? Ther's no disputing. Signior Francisco Sir, but even now Took horse without the Ports. Look to the Duke, he stands As if he wanted motion. Take up this body And call for his Physicians. In my judgement To all that shall but hear it, it'll appear A most impossible fable. But that melancholy, Though ending in distraction, should work So far upon a man as to compel him To court a thing that has nor sense, nor being, Is unto me a miracle. Yet be careful, You lose no minute to preserve him, time, May lessen his distraction. Already dead. The cause of this. But yesterday the court, Wore the sad livery of distrust, and fear; No smile, not in a buffon to be seen, Or common jester; The great Duke himself, Had sorrow in his face: which waited on By his mother, sister, and his fairest Duchess, Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan: As if some great blow had been given the State, Or were at least expected. I know no such hazard: The people well affected; And so wisely His provident care hath wrought: that though war rages In most parts of our western world, there is No enemy near us. 'Tis true, And 'twas a doubtful choice. Which stands fair, For ought I yet can hear. But why then, In such a time when every knee should bend, For the success, and safety of his person, Are these loud triumphs? In my weak opinion, They are unseasonable. She's indeed, A Lady of most exquisite form. I never herd her tainted, In any point of honour. He, in whose power it's, Turn all to the best. I'll bear you company. She was harsh at first, but ere we parted, seemed not Implacable. How? left the Court? No enemy near, to force him? To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up Himself, as 'twere in bonds to the discretion Of him that hates him? It's beyond example: You never herd the motives that induced him, To this strange course? He derides us. Sirrah, you grow saucy. There's no contending. That we should stoop To such a Mushroom. A desperate wretch.