DUKE. Be comforted, our duchess, he shall die.
LUS. Where's this slave-pander now? out of mine eye, Guilty of this abuse.
SPU. Y' are villains, fablers![63] You have knaves' chins and harlots' tongues; you lie; And I will damn you with one meal a day.
SPU. To let my sword catch cold so long, and miss him!
1ST SER. Troth, my lord, 'twas his intent to meet there.
SPU. 'Heart! he's yonder. Ha, what news here? is the day out o' th' socket, That it is noon at midnight? the court up! How comes the guard so saucy with his elbows?
LUS. The bastard here? Nay, then the truth of my intent shall out; My lord and father, hear me.
DUKE. Excuse? to prison with the villain! Death shall not long lag after him.
SPU. Good, i' faith: then 'tis not much amiss.
LUS. Brothers, my best release lies on your tongues; I pray, persuade for me.
AMB. It is our duties; make yourself sure of us.
LUS. And I may live to thank you. [_Exit._
AMB. No, thy death shall thank me better.
SPU. He's gone; I'll after him, And know his trespass; seem to bear a part In all his ills, but with a puritan heart. [_Exit._
AMB. Now, brother, let our hate and love be woven So subtlely together, that in speaking one word for his life, We may make three for his death: The craftiest pleader gets most gold for breath.
SUP. Set on, I'll not be far behind you, brother.
DUKE. Is't possible a son should be disobedient as far as the sword? It is the highest: he can go no farther.
AMB. Nay, we'd be loth to move your grace too much; We know the trespass is unpardonable, Black, wicked, and unnatural.
AMB. Yet, my lord, A duke's soft hand strokes the rough head of law, And makes it lie [more] smooth.
SUP. We must needs confess. Some fathers would have entered into hate So deadly-pointed, that before his eyes He would ha' seen the execution sound[64] Without corrupted favour.
AMB. But, my lord, Your grace may live the wonder of all times, In pard'ning that offence, which never yet Had face to beg a pardon.
AMB. Forgive him, good my lord; he's your own son: And I must needs say, 'twas the viler done.
SUP. He's the next heir: yet this true reason gathers, None can possess that dispossess their fathers. Be merciful!--
DUKE. Here's no step-mother's wit; I'll try them both upon their love and hate.