The Tragedy of
This out off shashion mellancholly, leave it, leave it.
Bos.
Give me leave to be honest in any phrase, in any
Complement whatsoever, shall I confesse my selfe to you?
I looke no higher then I can reach:
They are the gods, that must ride on winged horses,
A Lawyers mule of a slow pace, will both surt
My disposition, and businesse: For (marke me)
When a mans mind rides faster then his horse can gallop,
They quickly both tyre.
Ant.
You would looke up to Heaven, but I thinke
The Divell, that rules i'th'aire, stands in your light.
Bos.
Oh (Sir) you are Lord of the ascendant,
Chiefe man with the Duchesse, a Duke was your
Cosen German, remov'd: Say you were lineally
Descended from King Pippin, or he himselfe,
What of this? search the heads of the greatest rivers in
The World, you shall finde them but bubles of water:
Some would thinke the soules of Princes were brought
Forth by some more weighty cause, then those of meaner persons,
They are deceiv'd, there's the same hand to them:
The like passions sway them, the same reason, that makes
A Vicar goe to Law for a tithe-pig,
And undoe his neighbours, makes them spoile
A whole Province, and batter downe goodly
Cities, with the Cannon.
Duch.
Your arme Antonio, do I not grow fat?
I am exceeding short-winded: Bosola,
I would have you (Sir) provide for me a Littor,
Such a one, as the Duchesse of Florence roade in.
Bos.
The Duchesse us'd one, when she was great with childe.
Duch.
I thinke she did: come hether, mend my ruffe,
Here, when? thou art such a tedious Lady; and
Thy breath smells of Lymmon pils, would thou hadst done,
Shall I sound under thy fingers? I am
So troubled with the mother.
Bos.
I feare to much.
Duch.
I have heard you say, that the French Courries
Weare
