Vit. My lord----


Brach. Away!
We 'll be as differing as two adamants,
The one shall shun the other. What! dost weep?
Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade,
Ye 'd furnish all the Irish funerals
With howling past wild Irish.


Flam. Fie, my lord!


Brach. That hand, that cursed hand, which I have wearied
With doting kisses!--Oh, my sweetest duchess,
How lovely art thou now!--My loose thoughts
Scatter like quicksilver: I was bewitch'd;
For all the world speaks ill of thee.


Vit. No matter;
I 'll live so now, I 'll make that world recant,
And change her speeches. You did name your duchess.


Brach. Whose death God pardon!


Vit. Whose death God revenge