Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/33

 In my conceit, none are to be suspected More then your selfe.

Bos. You are a false steward.

Ant. Sawcy slave: I'll pull thee up by the rootes;

Bos. May be the ruyne will crush you to peeces.

Ant. You are an impudent snake indeed (sir) Are you scarce warme, and doe you shew your sting?

Ant. You Libell well (sir.)

Bos. No (sir,) Copy it out: and I will set my hand to't.

Ant. My nose bleedes: One that were superstitious, would count This ominous: when it meerely comes by chance. Two letters, that are wrought here, for my name Are drown'd in blood: meere accedent: for you (sir) I'll take order: I'th morne you shall be safe: 'tis that must colour Her lying-in: sir, this doore you passe not: I doe not hold it fit, that you come neere The Dutchesse lodgings, till you have quite your selfe; The Great are like the Base; nay, they are the same. When they seeke shamefull waies, to avoid shame.

Bos. Antonio here about, did drop a Paper, Some of your helpe (falce-friend) oh, here it is: What's here? a childes Nativitie calculated?

Why now 'tis most apparant: This precise fellow Is the Dutchesse Bawde: I have it to my wish: This is a parcell of Intelligency Our Courtiers were caside-up for? It needes must follow, That I must be committed, on pretence Of poysoning her: which I'll endure, and laugh at: