Brach. Pander, ply your convoy, and leave your prating.


Flam. All your kindness to me, is like that miserable courtesy of
Polyphemus to Ulysses; you reserve me to be devoured last: you would
dig turfs out of my grave to feed your larks; that would be music to
you. Come, I 'll lead you to her.


Brach. Do you face me?


Flam. Oh, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back
towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool.


Enter Vittoria to Brachiano and Flamineo


Brach. Can you read, mistress? look upon that letter:
There are no characters, nor hieroglyphics.
You need no comment; I am grown your receiver.
God's precious! you shall be a brave great lady,
A stately and advanced whore.


Vit. Say, sir?


Brach. Come, come, let 's see your cabinet, discover