All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers,
Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,
Durst not supplant her.


Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder.
Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given
Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast
In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee
But one.


Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then.


Fran. True:
Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution,
Shall ne'er do so by thee.


Brach. Spit thy poison.


Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip
At her own girdle. Look to 't, for our anger
Is making thunderbolts.


Brach. Thunder! in faith,
They are but crackers.