And with a princely uncontrolled arm
Lead you to Florence, where my love and care
Shall hang your wishes in my silver hair."
A halter on his strange equivocation!
"Nor for my years return me the sad willow;
Who prefer blossoms before fruit that 's mellow?"
Rotten, on my knowledge, with lying too long i' th' bedstraw.
"And all the lines of age this line convinces;
The gods never wax old, no more do princes."
A pox on 't, tear it; let 's have no more atheists, for God's sake.


Brach. Ud's death! I 'll cut her into atomies,
And let th' irregular north wind sweep her up,
And blow her int' his nostrils: where 's this whore?


Flam. What? what do you call her?


Brach. Oh, I could be mad!
Prevent the curs'd disease she 'll bring me to,
And tear my hair off. Where 's this changeable stuff?


Flam. O'er head and ears in water, I assure you;
She is not for your wearing.


Brach. In, you pander!