SCENE I.--_An Apartment in the Palace of the_ DUCHESS.

_Enter_ ANTONIO _and_ DELIO.

_Ant._ Our noble friend, my most belovèd Delio! O, you have been a stranger long at court; Came you along with the Lord Ferdinand?

_Delio._ I did, sir: and how fares your noble duchess?

_Ant._ Right fortunately well: she's an excellent Feeder of pedigrees; since you last saw her, She hath had two children more, a son and daughter.

_Delio._ Methinks 'twas yesterday: let me but wink, And not behold your face, which to mine eye Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dream It were within this half hour.

_Ant._ You have not been in law, friend Delio, Nor in prison, nor a suitor at the court, Nor begged the reversion of some great man's place, Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth make Your time so insensibly hasten.

_Delio._ Pray, sir, tell me, Hath not this news arrived yet to the ear Of the lord cardinal?

_Ant._ I fear it hath: The Lord Ferdinand, that's newly come to court, Doth bear himself right dangerously.

_Delio._ Pray, why?

_Ant._ He is so quiet that he seems to sleep The tempest out, as dormice do in winter: Those houses that are haunted are most still Till the devil be up.

_Delio._ What say the common people?

_Ant._ The common rabble do directly say She is a strumpet.

_Delio._ And your graver heads Which would be politic, what censure they?

_Ant._ They do observe I grow to infinite purchase,[124] The left hand way, and all suppose the duchess Would amend it, if she could; for, say they, Great princes, though they grudge their officers Should have such large and unconfinèd means To get wealth under them, will not complain, Lest thereby they should make them odious Unto the people; for other obligation Of love or marriage between her and me They never dream of.

_Delio._ The Lord Ferdinand Is going to bed.

_Enter_ DUCHESS, FERDINAND, _and_ Attendants.

_Ferd._ I'll instantly to bed, For I am weary.--I am to bespeak A husband for you.

_Duch._ For me, sir! pray, who is't?

_Ferd._ The great Count Malatesti.

_Duch._ Fie upon him! A count! he's a mere stick of sugar-candy; You may look quite through him. When I choose A husband, I will marry for your honour.

_Ferd._ You shall do well in't.--How is't, worthy Antonio?

_Duch._ But, sir, I am to have private conference with you About a scandalous report is spread Touching mine honour.

_Ferd._ Let me be ever deaf to't: One of Pasquil's paper bullets, court-calumny, A pestilent air, which princes' palaces Are seldom purged of. Yet say that it were true, I pour it in your bosom, my fixed love Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, deny Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe In your own innocency.

_Duch._ [_Aside._] O blessed comfort! This deadly air is purged. [_Exeunt_ DUCHESS, ANTONIO, DELIO, _and_ Attendants.

_Ferd._ Her guilt treads on Hot-burning coulters.

_Enter_ BOSOLA.

Now, Bosola, How thrives our intelligence?

_Bos._ Sir, uncertainly: 'Tis rumoured she hath had three bastards, but By whom we may go read i' the stars.

_Ferd._ Why, some Hold opinion all things are written there.

_Bos._ Yes, if we could find spectacles to read them. I do suspect there hath been some sorcery Used on the duchess.

_Ferd._ Sorcery! to what purpose?

_Bos._ To make her dote on some desertless fellow She shames to acknowledge.

_Ferd._ Can your faith give way To think there's power in potions or in charms, To make us love whether we will or no?

_Bos._ Most certainly.

_Ferd._ Away! these are mere gulleries, horrid things, Invented by some cheating mountebanks To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or charms Can force the will? Some trials have been made In this foolish practice, but the ingredients Were lenitive poisons, such as are of force To make the patient mad; and straight the witch Swears by equivocation they are in love. The witchcraft lies in her rank blood. This night I will force confession from her. You told me You had got, within these two days, a false key Into her bed-chamber.

_Bos._ I have.

_Ferd._ As I would wish.

_Bos._ What do you intend to do?

_Ferd._ Can you guess?

_Bos._ No.

_Ferd._ Do not ask, then: He that can compass me, and know my drifts, May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the world, And sounded all her quicksands.

_Bos._ I do not Think so.

_Ferd._ What do you think, then, pray?

_Bos._ That you are Your own chronicle too much, and grossly Flatter yourself.

_Ferd._ Give me thy hand; I thank thee: I never gave pension but to flatterers, Till I entertainèd thee. Farewell. That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, Who rails into his belief all his defects. [_Exeunt_.