will. I 'll not come at them. BOSOLA. This proclaims your breeding. Every small thing draws a base mind to fear, As the adamant draws iron. Fare you well, sir; You shall shortly hear from 's. Exit. DUCHESS. I suspect some ambush; Therefore by all my love I do conjure you To take your eldest son, and fly towards Milan. Let us not venture all this poor remainder In one unlucky bottom. ANTONIO. You counsel safely. Best of my life, farewell. Since we must part, Heaven hath a hand in 't; but no otherwise Than as some curious artist takes in sunder A clock or watch, when it is out of frame, To bring 't in better order. DUCHESS. I know not which is best, To see you dead, or part with you.—Farewell, boy: Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding To know thy misery; for all our wit And reading brings us to a truer sense Of sorrow.—In the eternal church, sir, I do hope we shall not part thus. ANTONIO. O, be of comfort! Make patience a noble fortitude, And think not how unkindly we are us'd: Man, like to cassia, is prov'd best, being bruis'd. DUCHESS. Must I, like to slave-born Russian, Account it praise to suffer tyranny? And yet, O heaven, thy heavy hand is in 't! I have seen my little boy oft scourge his top, And compar'd myself to 't: naught made me e'er Go right but heaven's scourge-stick. ANTONIO. Do not weep: Heaven fashion'd us of nothing; and we strive To bring ourselves to nothing.—Farewell, Cariola, And thy sweet armful.—If I do never see thee more, Be a good mother to your little ones, And save them from the tiger: fare you well. DUCHESS. Let me look upon you once more, for that speech Came from a dying father. Your kiss is colder Than that I have seen an holy anchorite Give to a dead man's skull. ANTONIO. My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump of lead, With which I sound my danger: fare you well. Exeunt [ANTONIO and his son.] DUCHESS. My laurel is all withered. CARIOLA. Look, madam, what a troop of armed men Make toward us! Re-enter BOSOLA [visarded,] with a Guard DUCHESS. O, they are very welcome: When Fortune's wheel is over-charg'd with princes, The weight makes it move swift: I would have my ruin Be sudden.—I am your adventure, am I not? BOSOLA. You are: you must see your husband no more. DUCHESS. What devil art thou that counterfeit'st heaven's thunder? BOSOLA. Is that terrible? I would have you tell me whether Is that note worse that frights the silly birds Out of the corn, or that which doth allure them To the nets? You have heark'ned to the last too
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