Fran. Sir, what 's the matter?


Brach. I will not chase more blood from that lov'd cheek;
You have lost too much already; fare you well. [Exit.


Fran. How strange these words sound! what 's the interpretation?


Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the
duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit
a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour
for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions.
Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in 't; I will talk to any man,
hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman.


Enter Giovanni, and Count Lodovico


Fran. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black!


Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you
In virtue, and you must imitate me
In colours of your garments. My sweet mother
Is----