_Enter the +Duke+, +Duchess+, +Cleara+, +De Flame+, +Dessandra+, Attendants._
+Duke.+ I'm in arrears yet unto your grace.
+Claud.+ A widow's entertainment, sir, you please to honour.
+Duke.+ I wish the hours but short, that bring the night You are to lose that name in; and then, to what Length your own desires would spin 'em, Widow! Madam, there's disconsonancy in The name, methinks. Claudilla widow! Duchess, and still widow (like a cypress Cast o'er a bed of lilies) darkens your other titles: 'Tis a weed in your garden, and will spoil the youth And beauty it grows nigh: a word of mortality Or a _memento mori_ to all young ladies, And a passing-bell to old ones. Indeed, it is A mere privation; and all widows are in The state of outlaws, till married again.
+Claud.+ Your highness holds a merry opinion of us Poor widows.
+De F.+ I say virgins are the ore: widows, The gold tried and refin'd.
+Duke.+ A fair young lady and widow is A rich piece of stuff rumpled: an old one's A blotting-paper a man shall never Write anything on--she sinks so. Dessandro, your comment.
+De F.+ Friend, you are dull o' th' sudden.
+Duke.+ Dull! Shall's to tennis? I have some pistolets Will pay your borrow'd time, Dessandro.
+Des.+ Your pardon, sir: I am unfit to wait on you. My life hangs in a dew upon me; And I have drunk poison.
+De F.+ Ha! A physician with all speed! Dessandro!
+Des.+ Cleara! Lend me thy hand: so-- I'm struck upon a rock. [_Swoons._
+Cle.+ He's dead; I shall not overtake him.
+Claud.+ He swells like a stopp'd torrent or a teeming cloud; Have I no servants there? [_Carry him off._
+Cle.+ As you are tender-natur'd, let no hand Close his eyes but mine: I am come back Thus far to take my farewell on his cold lip. [_+De Flame+ returns._
+De F.+ Sister, let thy warm blood flow back: Thy Dessandro lives, my girl!
Duke. Give me leave to make this opportunity happy On your hand. How! Not vouchsafe it? [_+Duchess+ goes off._ What a tyranny shot from her scornful eye! Where have I lost myself and her? There's a cross and peevish genius haunts my hopes; A black and envious cloud; and I must get above it. Not kiss your hand? Is your blood surfeited? I'll quit This scorn; indeed I will, coy madam! Thou, that are lord of my proud horoscope; Great soul of mysteries, kindle my brain With thy immortal fires! That if I fall, my name may rise divine: So Cæsar's glory set, and so set mine! [_Exit._