Mont. How now, my lord?


Fran. Believe me, I am nothing but her grave;
And I shall keep her blessed memory
Longer than thousand epitaphs.


SCENE III


Enter Flamineo as distracted, Marcello, and Lodovico


Flam. We endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel,
Till pain itself make us no pain to feel.
Who shall do me right now? is this the end of service? I'd rather go
weed garlic; travail through France, and be mine own ostler; wear
sheep-skin linings, or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into
the list of the forty thousand pedlars in Poland. [Enter Savoy
Ambassador.] Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice,
built upon the pox as well as on piles, ere I had served Brachiano!


Savoy Ambass. You must have comfort.


Flam. Your comfortable words are like honey: they relish well in your
mouth that 's whole, but in mine that 's wounded, they go down as if