Enter Isabella in her night-gown, as to bedward, with lights, after her, Count Lodovico, Giovanni, Guidantonio, and others waiting on her: she kneels down as to prayers, then draws the curtain of the picture, does three reverences to it, and kisses it thrice; she faints, and will not suffer them to come near it; dies; sorrow expressed in Giovanni, and in Count Lodovico. She is conveyed out solemnly.
Brach. Excellent! then she 's dead.
Conj. She 's poisonedBy the fumed picture. 'Twas her custom nightly,Before she went to bed, to go and visitYour picture, and to feed her eyes and lipsOn the dead shadow: Doctor Julio,Observing this, infects it with an oil,And other poison'd stuff, which presentlyDid suffocate her spirits.
Brach. Methought I sawCount Lodowick there.
Conj. He was; and by my artI find he did most passionately doteUpon your duchess. Now turn another way,And view Camillo's far more politic fate.Strike louder, music, from this charmed ground,To yield, as fits the act, a tragic sound!
The Second Dumb Show
Enter Flamineo, Marcello, Camillo, with four more as captains: they drink healths, and dance; a vaulting horse is brought into the room; Marcello and two more whispered out of the room, while Flamineo and Camillo strip themselves into their shirts, as to vault; compliment who shall begin; as Camillo is about to vault, Flamineo pitcheth him upon his neck, and, with the help of the rest, writhes his neck about; seems to see if it be broke, and lays him folded double, as 'twere under the horse; makes show to call for help; Marcello comes in, laments; sends for the cardinal and duke, who comes forth with armed men; wonders at the act; commands the body to be carried home; apprehends Flamineo, Marcello, and the rest, and go, as 'twere, to apprehend Vittoria.
Brach. 'Twas quaintly done; but yet each circumstanceI taste not fully.
Conj. Oh, 'twas most apparent!You saw them enter, charg'd with their deep healthsTo their boon voyage; and, to second that,Flamineo calls to have a vaulting horseMaintain their sport; the virtuous MarcelloIs innocently plotted forth the room;Whilst your eye saw the rest, and can inform youThe engine of all.
Brach. It seems Marcello and FlamineoAre both committed.
Conj. Yes, you saw them guarded;And now they are come with purpose to apprehendYour mistress, fair Vittoria. We are nowBeneath her roof: 'twere fit we instantlyMake out by some back postern.
Brach. Noble friend,You bind me ever to you: this shall standAs the firm seal annexed to my hand;It shall enforce a payment. [Exit Brachiano.
Conj. Sir, I thank you.Both flowers and weeds spring, when the sun is warm,And great men do great good, or else great harm.[Exit.
Enter Francisco de Medicis, and Monticelso, their Chancellor and Register
Fran. You have dealt discreetly, to obtain the presenceOf all the great lieger ambassadorsTo hear Vittoria's trial.
Mont. 'Twas not ill;For, sir, you know we have naught but circumstancesTo charge her with, about her husband's death:Their approbation, therefore, to the proofsOf her black lust shall make her infamousTo all our neighbouring kingdoms. I wonderIf Brachiano will be here?
Fran. Oh, fie! 'Twere impudence too palpable. [Exeunt.
Enter Flamineo and Marcello guarded, and a Lawyer
Lawyer. What, are you in by the week? So—I will try now whether theywit be close prisoner—methinks none should sit upon thy sister, butold whore-masters——
Flam. Or cuckolds; for your cuckold is your most terrible tickler oflechery. Whore-masters would serve; for none are judges at tilting,but those that have been old tilters.
Lawyer. My lord duke and she have been very private.
Flam. You are a dull ass; 'tis threatened they have been very public.
Lawyer. If it can be proved they have but kissed one another——
Flam. What then?
Lawyer. My lord cardinal will ferret them.
Flam. A cardinal, I hope, will not catch conies.
Lawyer. For to sow kisses (mark what I say), to sow kisses is to reaplechery; and, I am sure, a woman that will endure kissing is half won.
Flam. True, her upper part, by that rule; if you will win her neitherpart too, you know what follows.
Lawyer. Hark! the ambassadors are 'lighted——
Flam. I do put on this feigned garb of mirth,To gull suspicion.
Marc. Oh, my unfortunate sister!I would my dagger-point had cleft her heartWhen she first saw Brachiano: you, 'tis said,Were made his engine, and his stalking horse,To undo my sister.
Flam. I am a kind of pathTo her and mine own preferment.
Marc. Your ruin.
Flam. Hum! thou art a soldier,Followest the great duke, feed'st his victories,As witches do their serviceable spirits,Even with thy prodigal blood: what hast got?But, like the wealth of captains, a poor handful,Which in thy palm thou bear'st, as men hold water;Seeking to grip it fast, the frail rewardSteals through thy fingers.
Marc. Sir!
Flam. Thou hast scarce maintenanceTo keep thee in fresh chamois.
Marc. Brother!
Flam. Hear me:And thus, when we have even pour'd ourselvesInto great fights, for their ambition,Or idle spleen, how shall we find reward?But as we seldom find the mistletoe,Sacred to physic, on the builder oak,Without a mandrake by it; so in our quest of gain,Alas, the poorest of their forc'd dislikesAt a limb proffers, but at heart it strikes!This is lamented doctrine.
Marc. Come, come.
Flam. When age shall turn theeWhite as a blooming hawthorn——
Marc. I 'll interrupt you:For love of virtue bear an honest heart,And stride o'er every politic respect,Which, where they most advance, they most infect.Were I your father, as I am your brother,I should not be ambitious to leave youA better patrimony.
Flam. I 'll think on 't. [Enter Savoy Ambassador.The lord ambassadors.
[Here there is a passage of the Lieger Ambassadors over the stageseverally.
Enter French Ambassador
Lawyer. Oh, my sprightly Frenchman! Do you know him? he 's an admirable tilter.
Flam. I saw him at last tilting: he showed like a pewter candlestick fashioned like a man in armour, holding a tilting staff in his hand, little bigger than a candle of twelve i' th' pound.
Lawyer. Oh, but he's an excellent horseman!
Flam. A lame one in his lofty tricks; he sleeps a-horseback, like a poulterer.
Enter English and Spanish
Lawyer. Lo you, my Spaniard!
Flam. He carried his face in 's ruff, as I have seen a serving-man carry glasses in a cypress hatband, monstrous steady, for fear of breaking; he looks like the claw of a blackbird, first salted, and then broiled in a candle. [Exeunt.
The Arraignment of Vittoria
Enter Francisco, Monticelso, the six Lieger Ambassadors, Brachiano,Vittoria, Zanche, Flamineo, Marcello, Lawyer, and a Guard.
Mont. Forbear, my lord, here is no place assign'd you.This business, by his Holiness, is leftTo our examination.
Brach. May it thrive with you. [Lays a rich gown under him.
Fran. A chair there for his Lordship.
Brach. Forbear your kindness: an unbidden guestShould travel as Dutch women go to church,Bear their stools with them.
Mont. At your pleasure, sir.Stand to the table, gentlewoman. Now, signior,Fall to your plea.
Lawyer. Domine judex, converte oculos in hanc pestem, mulierumcorruptissiman.
Vit. What 's he?
Fran. A lawyer that pleads against you.
Vit. Pray, my lord, let him speak his usual tongue,I 'll make no answer else.
Fran. Why, you understand Latin.
Vit. I do, sir, but amongst this auditoryWhich come to hear my cause, the half or moreMay be ignorant in 't.
Mont. Go on, sir.
Vit. By your favour,I will not have my accusation cloudedIn a strange tongue: all this assemblyShall hear what you can charge me with.
Fran. Signior,You need not stand on 't much; pray, change your language.
Mont. Oh, for God's sake—Gentlewoman, your creditShall be more famous by it.
Lawyer. Well then, have at you.
Vit. I am at the mark, sir; I 'll give aim to you,And tell you how near you shoot.
Lawyer. Most literated judges, please your lordshipsSo to connive your judgments to the viewOf this debauch'd and diversivolent woman;Who such a black concatenationOf mischief hath effected, that to extirpThe memory of 't, must be the consummationOf her, and her projections——
Vit. What 's all this?
Lawyer. Hold your peace!Exorbitant sins must have exulceration.
Vit. Surely, my lords, this lawyer here hath swallow'dSome 'pothecaries' bills, or proclamations;And now the hard and undigestible wordsCome up, like stones we use give hawks for physic.Why, this is Welsh to Latin.
Lawyer. My lords, the womanKnows not her tropes, nor figures, nor is perfectIn the academic derivationOf grammatical elocution.
Fran. Sir, your painsShall be well spar'd, and your deep eloquenceBe worthily applauded amongst thouseWhich understand you.
Lawyer. My good lord.
Fran. Sir,Put up your papers in your fustian bag—[Francisco speaks this as in scorn.Cry mercy, sir, 'tis buckram and acceptMy notion of your learn'd verbosity.
Lawyer. I most graduatically thank your lordship:I shall have use for them elsewhere.
Mont. I shall be plainer with you, and paint outYour follies in more natural red and whiteThan that upon your cheek.
Vit. Oh, you mistake!You raise a blood as noble in this cheekAs ever was your mother's.
Mont. I must spare you, till proof cry whore to that.Observe this creature here, my honour'd lords,A woman of most prodigious spirit,In her effected.
Vit. My honourable lord,It doth not suit a reverend cardinalTo play the lawyer thus.
Mont. Oh, your trade instructs your language!You see, my lords, what goodly fruit she seems;Yet like those apples travellers reportTo grow where Sodom and Gomorrah stood,I will but touch her, and you straight shall seeShe 'll fall to soot and ashes.
Vit. Your envenom'd 'pothecary should do 't.
Mont. I am resolv'd,Were there a second paradise to lose,This devil would betray it.
Vit. O poor Charity!Thou art seldom found in scarlet.
Mont. Who knows not how, when several night by nightHer gates were chok'd with coaches, and her roomsOutbrav'd the stars with several kind of lights;When she did counterfeit a prince's courtIn music, banquets, and most riotous surfeits;This whore forsooth was holy.
Vit. Ha! whore! what 's that?
Mont. Shall I expound whore to you? sure I shall;I 'll give their perfect character. They are first,Sweetmeats which rot the eater; in man's nostrilsPoison'd perfumes. They are cozening alchemy;Shipwrecks in calmest weather. What are whores!Cold Russian winters, that appear so barren,As if that nature had forgot the spring.They are the true material fire of hell:Worse than those tributes i' th' Low Countries paid,Exactions upon meat, drink, garments, sleep,Ay, even on man's perdition, his sin.They are those brittle evidences of law,Which forfeit all a wretched man's estateFor leaving out one syllable. What are whores!They are those flattering bells have all one tune,At weddings, and at funerals. Your rich whoresAre only treasuries by extortion fill'd,And emptied by curs'd riot. They are worse,Worse than dead bodies which are begg'd at gallows,And wrought upon by surgeons, to teach manWherein he is imperfect. What's a whore!She 's like the guilty counterfeited coin,Which, whosoe'er first stamps it, brings in troubleAll that receive it.
Vit. This character 'scapes me.
Mont. You, gentlewoman!Take from all beasts and from all mineralsTheir deadly poison——
Vit. Well, what then?
Mont. I 'll tell thee;I 'll find in thee a 'pothecary's shop,To sample them all.
Fr. Ambass. She hath liv'd ill.
Eng. Ambass. True, but the cardinal 's too bitter.
Mont. You know what whore is. Next the devil adultery,Enters the devil murder.
Fran. Your unhappy husbandIs dead.
Vit. Oh, he 's a happy husband!Now he owes nature nothing.
Fran. And by a vaulting engine.
Mont. An active plot; he jump'd into his grave.
Fran. What a prodigy was 't,That from some two yards' height, a slender manShould break his neck!
Mont. I' th' rushes!
Fran. And what's more,Upon the instant lose all use of speech,All vital motion, like a man had lainWound up three days. Now mark each circumstance.
Mont. And look upon this creature was his wife!She comes not like a widow; she comes arm'dWith scorn and impudence: is this a mourning-habit?
Vit. Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest,I would have bespoke my mourning.
Mont. Oh, you are cunning!
Vit. You shame your wit and judgment,To call it so. What! is my just defenceBy him that is my judge call'd impudence?Let me appeal then from this Christian court,To the uncivil Tartar.
Mont. See, my lords,She scandals our proceedings.
Vit. Humbly thus,Thus low to the most worthy and respectedLieger ambassadors, my modestyAnd womanhood I tender; but withal,So entangled in a curs'd accusation,That my defence, of force, like Perseus,Must personate masculine virtue. To the point.Find me but guilty, sever head from body,We 'll part good friends: I scorn to hold my lifeAt yours, or any man's entreaty, sir.
Eng. Ambass. She hath a brave spirit.
Mont. Well, well, such counterfeit jewelsMake true ones oft suspected.
Vit. You are deceiv'd:For know, that all your strict-combined heads,Which strike against this mine of diamonds,Shall prove but glassen hammers: they shall break.These are but feigned shadows of my evils.Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils,I am past such needless palsy. For your namesOf 'whore' and 'murderess', they proceed from you,As if a man should spit against the wind,The filth returns in 's face.
Mont. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question:Who lodg'd beneath your roof that fatal nightYour husband broke his neck?
Brach. That questionEnforceth me break silence: I was there.
Mont. Your business?
Brach. Why, I came to comfort her,And take some course for settling her estate,Because I heard her husband was in debtTo you, my lord.
Mont. He was.
Brach. And 'twas strangely fear'd,That you would cozen her.
Mont. Who made you overseer?
Brach. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flowFrom every generous and noble spirit,To orphans and to widows.
Mont. Your lust!
Brach. Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest,I 'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear?The sword you frame of such an excellent temper,I 'll sheath in your own bowels.There are a number of thy coat resembleYour common post-boys.
Mont. Ha!
Brach. Your mercenary post-boys;Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guiseTo fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies.
Servant. My lord, your gown.
Brach. Thou liest, 'twas my stool:Bestow 't upon thy master, that will challengeThe rest o' th' household-stuff; for BrachianoWas ne'er so beggarly to take a stoolOut of another's lodging: let him makeVallance for his bed on 't, or a demy foot-clothFor his most reverend moil. Monticelso,Nemo me impune lacessit. [Exit.
Mont. Your champion's gone.
Vit. The wolf may prey the better.
Fran. My lord, there 's great suspicion of the murder,But no sound proof who did it. For my part,I do not think she hath a soul so blackTo act a deed so bloody; if she have,As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines,And with warm blood manure them; even soOne summer she will bear unsavoury fruit,And ere next spring wither both branch and root.The act of blood let pass; only descendTo matters of incontinence.
Vit. I discern poisonUnder your gilded pills.
Mont. Now the duke's gone, I will produce a letterWherein 'twas plotted, he and you should meetAt an apothecary's summer-house,Down by the River Tiber,—view 't, my lords,Where after wanton bathing and the heatOf a lascivious banquet—I pray read it,I shame to speak the rest.
Vit. Grant I was tempted;Temptation to lust proves not the act:Casta est quam nemo rogavit.You read his hot love to me, but you wantMy frosty answer.
Mont. Frost i' th' dog-days! strange!
Vit. Condemn you me for that the duke did love me?So may you blame some fair and crystal river,For that some melancholic distracted manHath drown'd himself in 't.
Mont. Truly drown'd, indeed.
Vit. Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find,That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart,And a good stomach to feast, are all,All the poor crimes that you can charge me with.In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies,The sport would be more noble.
Mont. Very good.
Vit. But take your course: it seems you 've beggar'd me first,And now would fain undo me. I have houses,Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes;Would those would make you charitable!
Mont. If the devilDid ever take good shape, behold his picture.
Vit. You have one virtue left,You will not flatter me.
Fran. Who brought this letter?
Vit. I am not compell'd to tell you.
Mont. My lord duke sent to you a thousand ducatsThe twelfth of August.
Vit. 'Twas to keep your cousinFrom prison; I paid use for 't.
Mont. I rather think,'Twas interest for his lust.
Vit. Who says so but yourself?If you be my accuser,Pray cease to be my judge: come from the bench;Give in your evidence 'gainst me, and let theseBe moderators. My lord cardinal,Were your intelligencing ears as lovingAs to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue,I would not care though you proclaim'd them all.
Mont. Go to, go to.After your goodly and vainglorious banquet,I 'll give you a choke-pear.
Vit. O' your own grafting?
Mont. You were born in Venice, honourably descendedFrom the Vittelli: 'twas my cousin's fate,Ill may I name the hour, to marry you;He bought you of your father.
Vit. Ha!
Mont. He spent there in six monthsTwelve thousand ducats, and (to my acquaintance)Receiv'd in dowry with you not one Julio:'Twas a hard pennyworth, the ware being so light.I yet but draw the curtain; now to your picture:You came from thence a most notorious strumpet,And so you have continued.
Vit. My lord!
Mont. Nay, hear me,You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano—Alas! I make but repetitionOf what is ordinary and Rialto talk,And ballated, and would be play'd a' th' stage,But that vice many times finds such loud friends,That preachers are charm'd silent.You, gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello,The Court hath nothing now to charge you with,Only you must remain upon your suretiesFor your appearance.
Fran. I stand for Marcello.
Flam. And my lord duke for me.
Mont. For you, Vittoria, your public fault,Join'd to th' condition of the present time,Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity,Such a corrupted trial have you madeBoth of your life and beauty, and been styl'dNo less an ominous fate than blazing starsTo princes. Hear your sentence: you are confin'dUnto a house of convertites, and your bawd——
Flam. [Aside.] Who, I?
Mont. The Moor.
Flam. [Aside.] Oh, I am a sound man again.
Vit. A house of convertites! what 's that?
Mont. A house of penitent whores.
Vit. Do the noblemen in RomeErect it for their wives, that I am sentTo lodge there?
Fran. You must have patience.
Vit. I must first have vengeance!I fain would know if you have your salvationBy patent, that you proceed thus.
Mont. Away with her,Take her hence.
Vit. A rape! a rape!
Mont. How?
Vit. Yes, you have ravish'd justice;Forc'd her to do your pleasure.
Mont. Fie, she 's mad——
Vit. Die with those pills in your most cursed maw,Should bring you health! or while you sit o' th' bench,Let your own spittle choke you!
Mont. She 's turned fury.
Vit. That the last day of judgment may so find you,And leave you the same devil you were before!Instruct me, some good horse-leech, to speak treason;For since you cannot take my life for deeds,Take it for words. O woman's poor revenge,Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep;No, I do scorn to call up one poor tearTo fawn on your injustice: bear me henceUnto this house of—what's your mitigating title?
Mont. Of convertites.
Vit. It shall not be a house of convertites;My mind shall make it honester to meThan the Pope's palace, and more peaceableThan thy soul, though thou art a cardinal.Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite,Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light. [Exit.
Enter Brachiano
Brach. Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake handsIn a friend's grave together; a fit place,Being th' emblem of soft peace, t' atone our hatred.
Fran. Sir, what 's the matter?
Brach. I will not chase more blood from that lov'd cheek;You have lost too much already; fare you well. [Exit.
Fran. How strange these words sound! what 's the interpretation?
Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions. Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in 't; I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman.
Enter Giovanni, and Count Lodovico
Fran. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black!
Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate youIn virtue, and you must imitate meIn colours of your garments. My sweet motherIs——
Fran. How? where?
Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I 'll not tell you,For I shall make you weep.
Fran. Is dead?
Giov. Do not blame me now,I did not tell you so.
Lodo. She 's dead, my lord.
Fran. Dead!
Mont. Bless'd lady, thou art now above thy woes!Will 't please your lordships to withdraw a little?
Giov. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat,Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry,As we that live?
Fran. No, coz; they sleep.
Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!I have not slept these six nights. When do they wake?
Fran. When God shall please.
Giov. Good God, let her sleep ever!For I have known her wake an hundred nights,When all the pillow where she laid her headWas brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir;I 'll tell you how they have us'd her now she 's dead:They wrapp'd her in a cruel fold of lead,And would not let me kiss her.
Fran. Thou didst love her?
Giov. I have often heard her say she gave me suck,And it should seem by that she dearly lov'd me,Since princes seldom do it.
Fran. Oh, all of my poor sister that remains!Take him away for God's sake! [Exit Giovanni.
Mont. How now, my lord?
Fran. Believe me, I am nothing but her grave;And I shall keep her blessed memoryLonger than thousand epitaphs.
Enter Flamineo as distracted, Marcello, and Lodovico
Flam. We endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel, Till pain itself make us no pain to feel. Who shall do me right now? is this the end of service? I'd rather go weed garlic; travail through France, and be mine own ostler; wear sheep-skin linings, or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into the list of the forty thousand pedlars in Poland. [Enter Savoy Ambassador.] Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice, built upon the pox as well as on piles, ere I had served Brachiano!
Savoy Ambass. You must have comfort.
Flam. Your comfortable words are like honey: they relish well in your mouth that 's whole, but in mine that 's wounded, they go down as if the sting of the bee were in them. Oh, they have wrought their purpose cunningly, as if they would not seem to do it of malice! In this a politician imitates the devil, as the devil imitates a canon; wheresoever he comes to do mischief, he comes with his backside towards you.
Enter French Ambassador
Fr. Ambass. The proofs are evident.
Flam. Proof! 'twas corruption. O gold, what a god art thou! and O man, what a devil art thou to be tempted by that cursed mineral! Your diversivolent lawyer, mark him! knaves turn informers, as maggots turn to flies, you may catch gudgeons with either. A cardinal! I would he would hear me: there 's nothing so holy but money will corrupt and putrify it, like victual under the line. [Enter English Ambassador.] You are happy in England, my lord; here they sell justice with those weights they press men to death with. O horrible salary!
Eng. Ambass. Fie, fie, Flamineo.
Flam. Bells ne'er ring well, till they are at their full pitch; and I hope yon cardinal shall never have the grace to pray well, till he come to the scaffold. If they were racked now to know the confederacy: but your noblemen are privileged from the rack; and well may, for a little thing would pull some of them a-pieces afore they came to their arraignment. Religion, oh, how it is commeddled with policy! The first blood shed in the world happened about religion. Would I were a Jew!
Marc. Oh, there are too many!
Flam. You are deceived; there are not Jews enough, priests enough, nor gentlemen enough.
Marc. How?
Flam. I 'll prove it; for if there were Jews enough, so many Christians would not turn usurers; if priests enough, one should not have six benefices; and if gentlemen enough, so many early mushrooms, whose best growth sprang from a live by begging: be thou one of them practise the art of Wolner in England, to swallow all 's given thee: and yet let one purgation make thee as hungry again as fellows that work in a saw-pit. I 'll go hear the screech-owl. [Exit.
Lodo. This was Brachiano's pander; and 'tis strangeThat in such open, and apparent guiltOf his adulterous sister, he dare utterSo scandalous a passion. I must wind him.
Re-enter Flamineo.
Flam. How dares this banish'd count return to Rome,His pardon not yet purchas'd! I have heardThe deceased duchess gave him pension,And that he came along from PaduaI' th' train of the young prince. There 's somewhat in 't:Physicians, that cure poisons, still do workWith counter-poisons.
Marc. Mark this strange encounter.
Flam. The god of melancholy turn thy gall to poison,And let the stigmatic wrinkles in thy face,Like to the boisterous waves in a rough tide,One still overtake another.
Lodo. I do thank thee,And I do wish ingeniously for thy sake,The dog-days all year long.
Flam. How croaks the raven?Is our good duchess dead?
Lodo. Dead.
Flam. O fate!Misfortune comes like the coroner's businessHuddle upon huddle.
Lodo. Shalt thou and I join housekeeping?
Flam. Yes, content:Let 's be unsociably sociable.
Lodo. Sit some three days together, and discourse?
Flam. Only with making faces;Lie in our clothes.
Lodo. With faggots for our pillows.
Flam. And be lousy.
Lodo. In taffeta linings, that 's genteel melancholy;Sleep all day.
Flam. Yes; and, like your melancholic hare,Feed after midnight. [Enter Antonelli and Gasparo.We are observed: see how yon couple grieve.
Lodo. What a strange creature is a laughing fool!As if man were created to no useBut only to show his teeth.
Flam. I 'll tell thee what,It would do well instead of looking-glasses,To set one's face each morning by a saucerOf a witch's congeal'd blood.
Lodo. Precious rogue!We'll never part.
Flam. Never, till the beggary of courtiers,The discontent of churchmen, want of soldiers,And all the creatures that hang manacled,Worse than strappadoed, on the lowest fellyOf fortune's wheel, be taught, in our two lives,To scorn that world which life of means deprives.
Ant. My lord, I bring good news. The Pope, on 's death bed,At th' earnest suit of the great Duke of Florence,Hath sign'd your pardon, and restor'd unto you——
Lodo. I thank you for your news. Look up again,Flamineo, see my pardon.
Flam. Why do you laugh?There was no such condition in our covenant.
Lodo. Why?
Flam. You shall not seem a happier man than I:You know our vow, sir; if you will be merry,Do it i' th' like posture, as if some great manSat while his enemy were executed:Though it be very lechery unto thee,Do 't with a crabbed politician's face.
Lodo. Your sister is a damnable whore.
Flam. Ha!
Lodo. Look you, I spake that laughing.
Flam. Dost ever think to speak again?
Lodo. Do you hear?Wilt sell me forty ounces of her bloodTo water a mandrake?
Flam. Poor lord, you did vowTo live a lousy creature.
Lodo. Yes.
Flam. Like oneThat had for ever forfeited the daylight,By being in debt.
Lodo. Ha, ha!
Flam. I do not greatly wonder you do break,Your lordship learn'd 't long since. But I 'll tell you.
Lodo. What?
Flam. And 't shall stick by you.
Lodo. I long for it.
Flam. This laughter scurvily becomes your face:If you will not be melancholy, be angry. [Strikes him.See, now I laugh too.
Marc. You are to blame: I 'll force you hence.
Lodo. Unhand me. [Exeunt Marcello and Flamineo.That e'er I should be forc'd to right myself,Upon a pander!
Ant. My lord.
Lodo. H' had been as good met with his fist a thunderbolt.
Gas. How this shows!
Lodo. Ud's death! how did my sword miss him?These rogues that are most weary of their livesStill 'scape the greatest dangers.A pox upon him; all his reputation,Nay, all the goodness of his family,Is not worth half this earthquake:I learn'd it of no fencer to shake thus:Come, I 'll forget him, and go drink some wine.[Exeunt.
Enter Francisco and Monticelso
Mont. Come, come, my lord, untie your folded thoughts,And let them dangle loose, as a bride's hair.Your sister's poisoned.
Fran. Far be it from my thoughtsTo seek revenge.
Mont. What, are you turn'd all marble?
Fran. Shall I defy him, and impose a war,Most burthensome on my poor subjects' necks,Which at my will I have not power to end?You know, for all the murders, rapes, and thefts,Committed in the horrid lust of war,He that unjustly caus'd it first proceed,Shall find it in his grave, and in his seed.
Mont. That 's not the course I 'd wish you; pray observe me.We see that undermining more prevailsThan doth the cannon. Bear your wrongs conceal'd,And, patient as the tortoise, let this camelStalk o'er your back unbruis'd: sleep with the lion,And let this brood of secure foolish micePlay with your nostrils, till the time be ripeFor th' bloody audit, and the fatal gripe:Aim like a cunning fowler, close one eye,That you the better may your game espy.
Fran. Free me, my innocence, from treacherous acts!I know there 's thunder yonder; and I 'll stand,Like a safe valley, which low bends the kneeTo some aspiring mountain: since I knowTreason, like spiders weaving nets for flies,By her foul work is found, and in it dies.To pass away these thoughts, my honour'd lord,It is reported you possess a book,Wherein you have quoted, by intelligence,The names of all notorious offendersLurking about the city.
Mont. Sir, I do;And some there are which call it my black-book.Well may the title hold; for though it teach notThe art of conjuring, yet in it lurkThe names of many devils.
Fran. Pray let 's see it.
Mont. I 'll fetch it to your lordship. [Exit.
Fran. Monticelso,I will not trust thee, but in all my plotsI 'll rest as jealous as a town besieg'd.Thou canst not reach what I intend to act:Your flax soon kindles, soon is out again,But gold slow heats, and long will hot remain.
Enter Monticelso, with the book
Mont. 'Tis here, my lord.
Fran. First, your intelligencers, pray let 's see.
Mont. Their number rises strangely;And some of themYou 'd take for honest men.Next are panders.These are your pirates; and these following leavesFor base rogues, that undo young gentlemen,By taking up commodities; for politic bankrupts;For fellows that are bawds to their own wives,Only to put off horses, and slight jewels,Clocks, defac'd plate, and such commodities,At birth of their first children.
Fran. Are there such?
Mont. These are for impudent bawds,That go in men's apparel; for usurersThat share with scriveners for their good reportage:For lawyers that will antedate their writs:And some divines you might find folded there,But that I slip them o'er for conscience' sake.Here is a general catalogue of knaves:A man might study all the prisons o'er,Yet never attain this knowledge.
Fran. Murderers?Fold down the leaf, I pray;Good my lord, let me borrow this strange doctrine.
Mont. Pray, use 't, my lord.
Fran. I do assure your lordship,You are a worthy member of the State,And have done infinite good in your discoveryOf these offenders.
Mont. Somewhat, sir.
Fran. O God!Better than tribute of wolves paid in England;'Twill hang their skins o' th' hedge.
Mont. I must make boldTo leave your lordship.
Fran. Dearly, sir, I thank you:If any ask for me at court, reportYou have left me in the company of knaves.[Exit Monticelso.I gather now by this, some cunning fellowThat 's my lord's officer, and that lately skipp'dFrom a clerk's desk up to a justice' chair,Hath made this knavish summons, and intends,As th' Irish rebels wont were to sell heads,So to make prize of these. And thus it happens:Your poor rogues pay for 't, which have not the meansTo present bribe in fist; the rest o' th' bandAre razed out of the knaves' record; or elseMy lord he winks at them with easy will;His man grows rich, the knaves are the knaves still.But to the use I 'll make of it; it shall serveTo point me out a list of murderers,Agents for my villany. Did I wantTen leash of courtesans, it would furnish me;Nay, laundress three armies. That in so little paperShould lie th' undoing of so many men!'Tis not so big as twenty declarations.See the corrupted use some make of books:Divinity, wrested by some factious blood,Draws swords, swells battles, and o'erthrows all good.To fashion my revenge more seriously,Let me remember my dear sister's face:Call for her picture? no, I 'll close mine eyes,And in a melancholic thought I 'll frame[Enter Isabella's Ghost.Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha' 't—how strongImagination works! how she can frameThings which are not! methinks she stands afore me,And by the quick idea of my mind,Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture.Thought, as a subtle juggler, makes us deemThings supernatural, which have causeCommon as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy.How cam'st thou by thy death?—how idle am ITo question mine own idleness!—did everMan dream awake till now?—remove this object;Out of my brain with 't: what have I to doWith tombs, or death-beds, funerals, or tears,That have to meditate upon revenge? [Exit Ghost.So, now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.Statesmen think often they see stranger sightsThan madmen. Come, to this weighty business.My tragedy must have some idle mirth in 't,Else it will never pass. I am in love,In love with Corombona; and my suitThus halts to her in verse.— [He writes.I have done it rarely: Oh, the fate of princes!I am so us'd to frequent flattery,That, being alone, I now flatter myself:But it will serve; 'tis seal'd. [Enter servant.] Bear thisTo the House of Convertites, and watch your leisureTo give it to the hands of Corombona,Or to the Matron, when some followersOf Brachiano may be by. Away! [Exit Servant.He that deals all by strength, his wit is shallow;When a man's head goes through, each limb will follow.The engine for my business, bold Count Lodowick;'Tis gold must such an instrument procure,With empty fist no man doth falcons lure.Brachiano, I am now fit for thy encounter:Like the wild Irish, I 'll ne'er think thee deadTill I can play at football with thy head,Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. [Exit.
Enter the Matron, and Flamineo
Matron. Should it be known the duke hath such recourseTo your imprison'd sister, I were likeT' incur much damage by it.
Flam. Not a scruple.The Pope lies on his death-bed, and their headsAre troubled now with other businessThan guarding of a lady.
Enter Servant
Servant. Yonder 's Flamineo in conferenceWith the Matrona.—Let me speak with you:I would entreat you to deliver for meThis letter to the fair Vittoria.
Matron. I shall, sir.
Enter Brachiano
Servant. With all care and secrecy;Hereafter you shall know me, and receiveThanks for this courtesy. [Exit.
Flam. How now? what 's that?
Matron. A letter.
Flam. To my sister? I 'll see 't deliver'd.
Brach. What 's that you read, Flamineo?
Flam. Look.
Brach. Ha! 'To the most unfortunate, his best respected Vittoria'.Who was the messenger?
Flam. I know not.
Brach. No! who sent it?
Flam. Ud's foot! you speak as if a manShould know what fowl is coffin'd in a bak'd meatAfore you cut it up.
Brach. I 'll open 't, were 't her heart. What 's here subscrib'd!Florence! this juggling is gross and palpable.I have found out the conveyance. Read it, read it.
Flam. [Reads the letter.] "Your tears I 'll turn to triumphs, be butmine;Your prop is fallen: I pity, that a vineWhich princes heretofore have long'd to gather,Wanting supporters, now should fade and wither."Wine, i' faith, my lord, with lees would serve his turn."Your sad imprisonment I 'll soon uncharm,And with a princely uncontrolled armLead you to Florence, where my love and careShall hang your wishes in my silver hair."A halter on his strange equivocation!"Nor for my years return me the sad willow;Who prefer blossoms before fruit that 's mellow?"Rotten, on my knowledge, with lying too long i' th' bedstraw."And all the lines of age this line convinces;The gods never wax old, no more do princes."A pox on 't, tear it; let 's have no more atheists, for God's sake.
Brach. Ud's death! I 'll cut her into atomies,And let th' irregular north wind sweep her up,And blow her int' his nostrils: where 's this whore?
Flam. What? what do you call her?
Brach. Oh, I could be mad!Prevent the curs'd disease she 'll bring me to,And tear my hair off. Where 's this changeable stuff?
Flam. O'er head and ears in water, I assure you;She is not for your wearing.
Brach. In, you pander!
Flam. What, me, my lord? am I your dog?
Brach. A bloodhound: do you brave, do you stand me?
Flam. Stand you! let those that have diseases run;I need no plasters.
Brach. Would you be kick'd?
Flam. Would you have your neck broke?I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;My shins must be kept whole.
Brach. Do you know me?
Flam. Oh, my lord, methodically!As in this world there are degrees of evils,So in this world there are degrees of devils.You 're a great duke, I your poor secretary.I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian sallet, daily.
Brach. Pander, ply your convoy, and leave your prating.
Flam. All your kindness to me, is like that miserable courtesy of Polyphemus to Ulysses; you reserve me to be devoured last: you would dig turfs out of my grave to feed your larks; that would be music to you. Come, I 'll lead you to her.
Brach. Do you face me?
Flam. Oh, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool.
Enter Vittoria to Brachiano and Flamineo
Brach. Can you read, mistress? look upon that letter:There are no characters, nor hieroglyphics.You need no comment; I am grown your receiver.God's precious! you shall be a brave great lady,A stately and advanced whore.
Vit. Say, sir?
Brach. Come, come, let 's see your cabinet, discoverYour treasury of love-letters. Death and furies!I 'll see them all.
Vit. Sir, upon my soul,I have not any. Whence was this directed?
Brach. Confusion on your politic ignorance!You are reclaim'd, are you? I 'll give you the bells,And let you fly to the devil.
Flam. Ware hawk, my lord.
Vit. Florence! this is some treacherous plot, my lord;To me he ne'er was lovely, I protest,So much as in my sleep.
Brach. Right! there are plots.Your beauty! Oh, ten thousand curses on 't!How long have I beheld the devil in crystal!Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice,With music, and with fatal yokes of flowers,To my eternal ruin. Woman to manIs either a god, or a wolf.
Vit. My lord——
Brach. Away!We 'll be as differing as two adamants,The one shall shun the other. What! dost weep?Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade,Ye 'd furnish all the Irish funeralsWith howling past wild Irish.
Flam. Fie, my lord!
Brach. That hand, that cursed hand, which I have weariedWith doting kisses!—Oh, my sweetest duchess,How lovely art thou now!—My loose thoughtsScatter like quicksilver: I was bewitch'd;For all the world speaks ill of thee.
Vit. No matter;I 'll live so now, I 'll make that world recant,And change her speeches. You did name your duchess.
Brach. Whose death God pardon!
Vit. Whose death God revengeOn thee, most godless duke!
Flam. Now for two whirlwinds.
Vit. What have I gain'd by thee, but infamy?Thou hast stain'd the spotless honour of my house,And frighted thence noble society:Like those, which sick o' th' palsy, and retainIll-scenting foxes 'bout them, are still shunn'dBy those of choicer nostrils. What do you call this house?Is this your palace? did not the judge style itA house of penitent whores? who sent me to it?To this incontinent college? is 't not you?Is 't not your high preferment? go, go, bragHow many ladies you have undone, like me.Fare you well, sir; let me hear no more of you!I had a limb corrupted to an ulcer,But I have cut it off; and now I 'll goWeeping to heaven on crutches. For your gifts,I will return them all, and I do wishThat I could make you full executorTo all my sins. O that I could toss myselfInto a grave as quickly! for all thou art worthI 'll not shed one tear more—I 'll burst first.[She throws herself upon a bed.
Brach. I have drunk Lethe: Vittoria!My dearest happiness! Vittoria!What do you ail, my love? why do you weep?
Vit. Yes, I now weep poniards, do you see?
Brach. Are not those matchless eyes mine?
Vit. I had ratherThey were not matches.
Brach. Is not this lip mine?
Vit. Yes; thus to bite it off, rather than give it thee.
Flam. Turn to my lord, good sister.
Vit. Hence, you pander!
Flam. Pander! am I the author of your sin?
Vit. Yes; he 's a base thief that a thief lets in.
Flam. We 're blown up, my lord——
Brach. Wilt thou hear me?Once to be jealous of thee, is t' expressThat I will love thee everlastingly,And never more be jealous.
Vit. O thou fool,Whose greatness hath by much o'ergrown thy wit!What dar'st thou do, that I not dare to suffer,Excepting to be still thy whore? for that,In the sea's bottom sooner thou shalt makeA bonfire.
Flam. Oh, no oaths, for God's sake!
Brach. Will you hear me?
Vit. Never.
Flam. What a damn'd imposthume is a woman's will!Can nothing break it? [Aside.] Fie, fie, my lord,Women are caught as you take tortoises,She must be turn'd on her back. Sister, by this handI am on your side.—Come, come, you have wrong'd her;What a strange credulous man were you, my lord,To think the Duke of Florence would love her!Will any mercer take another's wareWhen once 'tis tows'd and sullied? And yet, sister,How scurvily this forwardness becomes you!Young leverets stand not long, and women's angerShould, like their flight, procure a little sport;A full cry for a quarter of an hour,And then be put to th' dead quat.