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. FERDINAND. You shall do well in 't.—How is 't, worthy Antonio? DUCHESS. But, sir, I am to have private conference with you About a scandalous report is spread Touching mine honour. FERDINAND. Let me be ever deaf to 't: One of Pasquil's paper-bullets,[74] court-calumny, A pestilent air, which princes' palaces Are seldom purg'd of. Yet, say that it were true, I pour it in your bosom, my fix'd love Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, deny Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe In your own innocency. DUCHESS. [Aside.] O bless'd comfort! This deadly air is purg'd. Exeunt [DUCHESS, ANTONIO, DELIO, and Attendants.] FERDINAND. Her guilt treads on Hot-burning coulters.[75] Enter BOSOLA Now, Bosola, How thrives our intelligence?[76] BOSOLA. Sir, uncertainly: 'Tis rumour'd she hath had three bastards, but By whom we may go read i' the stars. FERDINAND. Why, some Hold opinion all things are written there. BOSOLA. Yes, if we could find spectacles to read them. I do suspect there hath been some sorcery Us'd on the duchess. FERDINAND. Sorcery! to what purpose? BOSOLA. To make her dote on some desertless fellow She shames to acknowledge. FERDINAND. Can your faith give way To think there 's power in potions or in charms, To make us love whether we will or no? BOSOLA. Most certainly. FERDINAND. Away! these are mere gulleries,[77] 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[78] poisons, such as are of force To make the patient mad; and straight the witch Swears by equivocation they are in love. The witch-craft 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. BOSOLA. I have. FERDINAND. As I would wish. BOSOLA. What do you intend to do? FERDINAND. Can you guess? BOSOLA. No. FERDINAND. 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 quick-sands. BOSOLA. I do not Think so. FERDINAND. What do you think, then, pray? BOSOLA.
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