Brach. Flamineo.


Flam. My lord.


Brach. Quite lost, Flamineo.


Flam. Pursue your noble wishes, I am prompt
As lightning to your service. O my lord!
The fair Vittoria, my happy sister,
Shall give you present audience--Gentlemen, [Whisper.
Let the caroch go on--and 'tis his pleasure
You put out all your torches and depart.


Brach. Are we so happy?


Flam. Can it be otherwise?
Observ'd you not to-night, my honour'd lord,
Which way soe'er you went, she threw her eyes?
I have dealt already with her chambermaid,
Zanche the Moor, and she is wondrous proud
To be the agent for so high a spirit.