Brach. Shall these eyes,Which have so long time dwelt upon your face,Be now put out?
Flam. No cruel landlady i' th' world,Which lends forth groats to broom-men, and takes useFor them, would do 't.Hand her, my lord, and kiss her: be not likeA ferret, to let go your hold with blowing.
Brach. Let us renew right hands.
Vit. Hence!
Brach. Never shall rage, or the forgetful wine,Make me commit like fault.
Flam. Now you are i' th' way on 't, follow 't hard.
Brach. Be thou at peace with me, let all the worldThreaten the cannon.
Flam. Mark his penitence;Best natures do commit the grossest faults,When they 're given o'er to jealousy, as best wine,Dying, makes strongest vinegar. I 'll tell you:The sea 's more rough and raging than calm rivers,But not so sweet, nor wholesome. A quiet womanIs a still water under a great bridge;A man may shoot her safely.
Vit. O ye dissembling men!
Flam. We suck'd that, sister,From women's breasts, in our first infancy.
Vit. To add misery to misery!
Brach. Sweetest!
Vit. Am I not low enough?Ay, ay, your good heart gathers like a snowball,Now your affection 's cold.
Flam. Ud's foot, it shall meltTo a heart again, or all the wine in RomeShall run o' th' lees for 't.
Vit. Your dog or hawk should be rewarded betterThan I have been. I 'll speak not one word more.
Flam. Stop her mouthWith a sweet kiss, my lord. So,Now the tide 's turn'd, the vessel 's come about.He 's a sweet armful. Oh, we curl-hair'd menAre still most kind to women! This is well.
Brach. That you should chide thus!
Flam. Oh, sir, your little chimneysDo ever cast most smoke! I sweat for you.Couple together with as deep a silence,As did the Grecians in their wooden horse.My lord, supply your promises with deeds;You know that painted meat no hunger feeds.
Brach. Stay, ungrateful Rome——
Flam. Rome! it deserve to be call'd Barbary,For our villainous usage.
Brach. Soft; the same project which the Duke of Florence,(Whether in love or gallery I know not)Laid down for her escape, will I pursue.
Flam. And no time fitter than this night, my lord.The Pope being dead, and all the cardinals enter'dThe conclave, for th' electing a new Pope;The city in a great confusion;We may attire her in a page's suit,Lay her post-horse, take shipping, and amainFor Padua.
Brach. I 'll instantly steal forth the Prince Giovanni,And make for Padua. You two with your old mother,And young Marcello that attends on Florence,If you can work him to it, follow me:I will advance you all; for you, Vittoria,Think of a duchess' title.
Flam. Lo you, sister!Stay, my lord; I 'll tell you a tale. The crocodile, which livesin the River Nilus, hath a worm breeds i' th' teeth of 't, which putsit to extreme anguish: a little bird, no bigger than a wren, isbarber-surgeon to this crocodile; flies into the jaws of 't, picks outthe worm, and brings present remedy. The fish, glad of ease, butungrateful to her that did it, that the bird may not talk largely ofher abroad for non-payment, closeth her chaps, intending to swallowher, and so put her to perpetual silence. But nature, loathing suchingratitude, hath armed this bird with a quill or prick on the head,top o' th' which wounds the crocodile i' th' mouth, forceth her openher bloody prison, and away flies the pretty tooth-picker from hercruel patient.
Brach. Your application is, I have not rewardedThe service you have done me.
Flam. No, my lord.You, sister, are the crocodile: you are blemish'd in your fame, my lordcures it; and though the comparison hold not in every particle, yetobserve, remember, what good the bird with the prick i' th' head hathdone you, and scorn ingratitude.It may appear to some ridiculousThus to talk knave and madman, and sometimesCome in with a dried sentence, stuffed with sage:But this allows my varying of shapes;Knaves do grow great by being great men's apes.
Enter Francisco, Lodovico, Gasparo, and six Ambassadors
Fran. So, my lord, I commend your diligence.Guard well the conclave; and, as the order is,Let none have conference with the cardinals.
Lodo. I shall, my lord. Room for the ambassadors.
Gas. They 're wondrous brave to-day: why do they wearThese several habits?
Lodo. Oh, sir, they 're knightsOf several orders:That lord i' th' black cloak, with the silver cross,Is Knight of Rhodes; the next, Knight of St. Michael;That, of the Golden Fleece; the Frenchman, there,Knight of the Holy Ghost; my Lord of Savoy,Knight of th' Annunciation; the EnglishmanIs Knight of th' honour'd Garter, dedicatedUnto their saint, St. George. I could describe to youTheir several institutions, with the lawsAnnexed to their orders; but that timePermits not such discovery.
Fran. Where 's Count Lodowick?
Lodo. Here, my lord.
Fran. 'Tis o' th' point of dinner time;Marshal the cardinals' service.
Lodo. Sir, I shall. [Enter Servants, with several dishes covered.Stand, let me search your dish. Who 's this for?
Servant. For my Lord Cardinal Monticelso.
Lodo. Whose this?
Servant. For my Lord Cardinal of Bourbon.
Fr. Ambass. Why doth he search the dishes? to observeWhat meat is dressed?
Eng. Ambass. No, sir, but to preventLest any letters should be convey'd in,To bribe or to solicit the advancementOf any cardinal. When first they enter,'Tis lawful for the ambassadors of princesTo enter with them, and to make their suitFor any man their prince affecteth best;But after, till a general election,No man may speak with them.
Lodo. You that attend on the lord cardinals,Open the window, and receive their viands.
Card. [Within.] You must return the service: the lord cardinalsAre busied 'bout electing of the Pope;They have given o'er scrutiny, and are fallenTo admiration.
Lodo. Away, away.
Fran. I 'll lay a thousand ducats you hear newsOf a Pope presently. Hark; sure he 's elected:Behold, my Lord of Arragon appearsOn the church battlements. [A Cardinal on the terrace.
Arragon. Denuntio vobis gaudium magnum: Reverendissimus CardinalisLorenzo de Monticelso electus est in sedem apostolicam, et elegit sibinomen Paulum Quartum.
Omnes. Vivat Sanctus Pater Paulus Quartus!
Servant. Vittoria, my lord——
Fran. Well, what of her?
Servant. Is fled the city——
Fran. Ha!
Servant. With Duke Brachiano.
Fran. Fled! where 's the Prince Giovanni?
Servant. Gone with his father.
Fran. Let the Matrona of the ConvertitesBe apprehended. Fled? O damnable!How fortunate are my wishes! why, 'twas thisI only labour'd: I did send the letterT' instruct him what to do. Thy fame, fond duke,I first have poison'd; directed thee the wayTo marry a whore; what can be worse? This follows:The hand must act to drown the passionate tongue,I scorn to wear a sword and prate of wrong.
Enter Monticelso in State
Mont. Concedimus vobis Apostolicam benedictionem, et remissionempeccatorum.My lord reports Vittoria CorombonaIs stol'n from forth the House of ConvertitesBy Brachiano, and they 're fled the city.Now, though this be the first day of our seat,We cannot better please the Divine Power,Than to sequester from the Holy ChurchThese cursed persons. Make it therefore known,We do denounce excommunicationAgainst them both: all that are theirs in RomeWe likewise banish. Set on.[Exeunt all but Francisco and Lodovico.
Fran. Come, dear Lodovico;You have ta'en the sacrament to prosecuteTh' intended murder?
Lodo. With all constancy.But, sir, I wonder you 'll engage yourselfIn person, being a great prince.
Fran. Divert me not.Most of his court are of my faction,And some are of my council. Noble friend,Our danger shall be like in this design:Give leave part of the glory may be mine. [Exit Francisco.
Enter Monticelso
Mont. Why did the Duke of Florence with such careLabour your pardon? say.
Lodo. Italian beggars will resolve you that,Who, begging of alms, bid those they beg of,Do good for their own sakes; or 't may be,He spreads his bounty with a sowing hand,Like kings, who many times give out of measure,Not for desert so much, as for their pleasure.
Mont. I know you 're cunning. Come, what devil was thatThat you were raising?
Lodo. Devil, my lord?
Mont. I ask you,How doth the duke employ you, that his bonnetFell with such compliment unto his knee,When he departed from you?
Lodo. Why, my lord,He told me of a resty Barbary horseWhich he would fain have brought to the career,The sault, and the ring galliard: now, my lord,I have a rare French rider.
Mont. Take your heed,Lest the jade break your neck. Do you put me offWith your wild horse-tricks? Sirrah, you do lie.Oh, thou 'rt a foul black cloud, and thou dost threatA violent storm!
Lodo. Storms are i' th' air, my lord;I am too low to storm.
Mont. Wretched creature!I know that thou art fashion'd for all ill,Like dogs, that once get blood, they 'll ever kill.About some murder, was 't not?
Lodo. I 'll not tell you:And yet I care not greatly if I do;Marry, with this preparation. Holy father,I come not to you as an intelligencer,But as a penitent sinner: what I utterIs in confession merely; which, you know,Must never be reveal'd.
Mont. You have o'erta'en me.
Lodo. Sir, I did love Brachiano's duchess dearly,Or rather I pursued her with hot lust,Though she ne'er knew on 't. She was poison'd;Upon my soul she was: for which I have swornT' avenge her murder.
Mont. To the Duke of Florence?
Lodo. To him I have.
Mont. Miserable creature!If thou persist in this, 'tis damnable.Dost thou imagine, thou canst slide on blood,And not be tainted with a shameful fall?Or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree,Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves,And yet to prosper? Instruction to theeComes like sweet showers to o'er-harden'd ground;They wet, but pierce not deep. And so I leave thee,With all the furies hanging 'bout thy neck,Till by thy penitence thou remove this evil,In conjuring from thy breast that cruel devil. [Exit.
Lodo. I 'll give it o'er; he says 'tis damnable:Besides I did expect his suffrage,By reason of Camillo's death.
Enter Servant and Francisco
Fran. Do you know that count?
Servant. Yes, my lord.
Fran. Bear him these thousand ducats to his lodging.Tell him the Pope hath sent them. HappilyThat will confirm more than all the rest. [Exit.
Servant. Sir.
Lodo. To me, sir?
Servant. His Holiness hath sent you a thousand crowns,And wills you, if you travel, to make himYour patron for intelligence.
Lodo. His creature ever to be commanded.—Why now 'tis come about. He rail'd upon me;And yet these crowns were told out, and laid ready,Before he knew my voyage. Oh, the art,The modest form of greatness! that do sit,Like brides at wedding-dinners, with their looks turn'dFrom the least wanton jests, their puling stomachSick from the modesty, when their thoughts are loose,Even acting of those hot and lustful sportsAre to ensue about midnight: such his cunning!He sounds my depth thus with a golden plummet.I am doubly arm'd now. Now to th' act of blood,There 's but three furies found in spacious hell,But in a great man's breast three thousand dwell. [Exit.
A passage over the stage of Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio,Corombona, Cornelia, Zanche, and others: Flamineo and Hortensio remain.
Flam. In all the weary minutes of my life,Day ne'er broke up till now. This marriageConfirms me happy.
Hort. 'Tis a good assurance.Saw you not yet the Moor that 's come to court?
Flam. Yes, and conferr'd with him i' th' duke's closet.I have not seen a goodlier personage,Nor ever talk'd with man better experience'dIn State affairs, or rudiments of war.He hath, by report, serv'd the VenetianIn Candy these twice seven years, and been chiefIn many a bold design.
Hort. What are those twoThat bear him company?
Flam. Two noblemen of Hungary, that, living in the emperor's service as commanders, eight years since, contrary to the expectation of the court entered into religion, in the strict Order of Capuchins; but, being not well settled in their undertaking, they left their Order, and returned to court; for which, being after troubled in conscience, they vowed their service against the enemies of Christ, went to Malta, were there knighted, and in their return back, at this great solemnity, they are resolved for ever to forsake the world, and settle themselves here in a house of Capuchins in Padua.
Hort. 'Tis strange.
Flam. One thing makes it so: they have vowed for ever to wear, nexttheir bare bodies, those coats of mail they served in.
Hort. Hard penance!Is the Moor a Christian?
Flam. He is.
Hort. Why proffers he his service to our duke?
Flam. Because he understands there 's like to growSome wars between us and the Duke of Florence,In which he hopes employment.I never saw one in a stern bold lookWear more command, nor in a lofty phraseExpress more knowing, or more deep contemptOf our slight airy courtiersAs if he travell'd all the princes' courtsOf Christendom: in all things strives t' express,That all, that should dispute with him, may know,Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.The duke.
Enter Brachiano, Francisco disguised like Mulinassar, Lodovicoand Gasparo, bearing their swords, their helmets down, Antonelli,Farnese.
Brach. You are nobly welcome. We have heard at fullYour honourable service 'gainst the Turk.To you, brave Mulinassar, we assignA competent pension: and are inly sorry,The vows of those two worthy gentlemenMake them incapable of our proffer'd bounty.Your wish is, you may leave your warlike swordsFor monuments in our chapel: I accept it,As a great honour done me, and must craveYour leave to furnish out our duchess' revels.Only one thing, as the last vanityYou e'er shall view, deny me not to stayTo see a barriers prepar'd to-night:You shall have private standings. It hath pleas'dThe great ambassadors of several princes,In their return from Rome to their own countries,To grace our marriage, and to honour meWith such a kind of sport.
Fran. I shall persuade them to stay, my lord.
Brach. Set on there to the presence.[Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, and Hortensio.
Lodo. Noble my lord, most fortunately welcome;[The conspirators here embrace.You have our vows, seal'd with the sacrament,To second your attempts.
Gas. And all things ready;He could not have invented his own ruin(Had he despair'd) with more propriety.
Lodo. You would not take my way.
Fran. 'Tis better order'd.
Lodo. T' have poison'd his prayer-book, or a pair of beads,The pummel of his saddle, his looking-glass,Or th' handle of his racket,—O, that, that!That while he had been bandying at tennis,He might have sworn himself to hell, and strookHis soul into the hazard! Oh, my lord,I would have our plot be ingenious,And have it hereafter recorded for example,Rather than borrow example.
Fran. There 's no wayMore speeding that this thought on.
Lodo. On, then.
Fran. And yet methinks that this revenge is poor,Because it steals upon him like a thief:To have ta'en him by the casque in a pitch'd field,Led him to Florence——
Lodo. It had been rare: and thereHave crown'd him with a wreath of stinking garlic,T' have shown the sharpness of his government,And rankness of his lust. Flamineo comes.[Exeunt Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo.
Enter Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche
Marc. Why doth this devil haunt you, say?
Flam. I know not:For by this light, I do not conjure for her.'Tis not so great a cunning as men think,To raise the devil; for here 's one up already;The greatest cunning were to lay him down.
Marc. She is your shame.
Flam. I pray thee pardon her.In faith, you see, women are like to burs,Where their affection throws them, there they 'll stick.
Zan. That is my countryman, a goodly person;When he 's at leisure, I 'll discourse with himIn our own language.
Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche.How is 't, brave soldier? Oh, that I had seenSome of your iron days! I pray relateSome of your service to us.
Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a stinking breath.
Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from you.
Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a show, and bear out weather equally.
Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would tell them stories.
Marc. I have been a soldier too.
Fran. How have you thrived?
Marc. Faith, poorly.
Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected. As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who, if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies.
Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion.
Fran. And thou mayest do the devil knows what villainy.
Flam. And safely.
Fran. Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons, though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven, they go to the pot for 't.
Flam. I will now give you some politic instruction. The duke says hewill give you pension; that 's but bare promise; get it under his hand.For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, forthree or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs,and fresh plasters; but after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserablecourtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to onethree-quarters dead o' th' rack, only to fetch the miserable soul againto endure more dog-days.[Exit Francisco. Enter Hortensio, a young Lord, Zanche, and two more.How now, gallants? what, are they ready for the barriers?
Young Lord. Yes: the lords are putting on their armour.
Hort. What 's he?
Flam. A new upstart; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew him, since he came to th' court, smell worse of sweat than an under tennis-court keeper.
Hort. Look you, yonder 's your sweet mistress.
Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I 'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villainy. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears; but for fear of her turning upon me, and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil.
Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee.
Flam. 'Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from 't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at 's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him. Now, my precious gipsy.
Zan. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats.
Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover; we have many wenches about the town heat too fast.
Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then?
Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confidentThey have a certain spice of the disease;For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas.
Zan. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you loathe me.
Flam. How, love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I 'll unkennel one example more for thee. Æsop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to catch the shadow; I would have courtiers be better diners.
Zan. You remember your oaths?
Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity; but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen, protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on protestation, and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this discourse better now than the morality of your sunburnt gentleman?
Enter Cornelia
Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews.[Strikes Zanche.
Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court![Exit Cornelia.
Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maidsCatch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff,For fear of her light fingers.
Marc. You 're a strumpet,An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche.
Flam. Why do you kick her, say?Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree?Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit?
Marc. She brags that you shall marry her.
Flam. What then?
Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake,In some new-seeded garden, to affrightHer fellow crows thence.
Flam. You 're a boy, a fool,Be guardian to your hound; I am of age.
Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat.
Flam. With a fan of feather?
Marc. And, for you, I 'll whipThis folly from you.
Flam. Are you choleric?I 'll purge it with rhubarb.
Hort. Oh, your brother!
Flam. Hang him,He wrongs me most, that ought t' offend me least:I do suspect my mother play'd foul play,When she conceiv'd thee.
Marc. Now, by all my hopes,Like the two slaughter'd sons of dipus,The very flames of our affectionShall turn two ways. Those words I 'll make thee answerWith thy heart-blood.
Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress;You know where you shall find me.
Marc. Very good. [Exit Flamineo.And thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword,And bid him fit the length on 't.
Young Lord. Sir, I shall. [Exeunt all but Zanche.
Zan. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace![Enter Francisco.I ne'er lov'd my complexion till now,'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush,I love you.
Fran. Your love is untimely sown; there 's a spring at Michaelmas, but 'tis but a faint one: I am sunk in years, and I have vowed never to marry.
Zan. Alas! poor maids get more lovers than husbands: yet you may mistake my wealth. For, as when ambassadors are sent to congratulate princes, there 's commonly sent along with them a rich present, so that, though the prince like not the ambassador's person, nor words, yet he likes well of the presentment; so I may come to you in the same manner, and be better loved for my dowry than my virtue.
Fran. I 'll think on the motion.
Zan. Do; I 'll now detain you no longer. At your better leisure, I 'lltell you things shall startle your blood:Nor blame me that this passion I reveal;Lovers die inward that their flames conceal.
Fran. Of all intelligence this may prove the best:Sure I shall draw strange fowl from this foul nest. [Exeunt.
Enter Marcello and Cornelia
Corn. I hear a whispering all about the court,You are to fight: who is your opposite?What is the quarrel?
Marc. 'Tis an idle rumour.
Corn. Will you dissemble? sure you do not wellTo fright me thus: you never look thus pale,But when you are most angry. I do charge you,Upon my blessing—nay, I 'll call the duke,And he shall school you.
Marc. Publish not a fear,Which would convert to laughter: 'tis not so.Was not this crucifix my father's?
Corn. Yes.
Marc. I have heard you say, giving my brother suckHe took the crucifix between his hands, [Enter Flamineo.And broke a limb off.
Corn. Yes, but 'tis mended.
Flam. I have brought your weapon back.[Flamineo runs Marcello through.
Corn. Ha! Oh, my horror!
Marc. You have brought it home, indeed.
Corn. Help! Oh, he 's murder'd!
Flam. Do you turn your gall up? I 'll to sanctuary,And send a surgeon to you. [Exit.
Enter Lodovico, Hortensio, and Gasparo
Hort. How! o' th' ground!
Marc. Oh, mother, now remember what I toldOf breaking of the crucifix! Farewell.There are some sins, which heaven doth duly punishIn a whole family. This it is to riseBy all dishonest means! Let all men know,That tree shall long time keep a steady foot,Whose branches spread no wider than the root. [Dies.
Corn. Oh, my perpetual sorrow!
Hort. Virtuous Marcello!He 's dead. Pray leave him, lady: come, you shall.
Corn. Alas! he is not dead; he 's in a trance. Why, here 's nobody shall get anything by his death. Let me call him again, for God's sake!
Lodo. I would you were deceived.
Corn. Oh, you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! how many have gone away thus, for lack of 'tendance! rear up 's head, rear up 's head! his bleeding inward will kill him.
Hort. You see he is departed.
Corn. Let me come to him; give me him as he is, if he be turn'd to earth; let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both in one coffin. Fetch a looking-glass: see if his breath will not stain it; or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his lips. Will you lose him for a little painstaking?
Hort. Your kindest office is to pray for him.
Corn. Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' th' ground, and pray for me, if you 'll let me come to him.
Enter Brachiano, all armed, save the beaver, with Flamineo and others
Brach. Was this your handiwork?
Flam. It was my misfortune.
Corn. He lies, he lies! he did not kill him: these have killed him, that would not let him be better looked to.
Brach. Have comfort, my griev'd mother.
Corn. Oh, you screech-owl!
Hort. Forbear, good madam.
Corn. Let me go, let me go.[She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and coming to him lets itfall.The God of heaven forgive thee! Dost not wonderI pray for thee? I 'll tell thee what 's the reason,I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes;I 'd not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well:Half of thyself lies there; and mayst thou liveTo fill an hour-glass with his moulder'd ashes,To tell how thou shouldst spend the time to comeIn blessed repentance!
Brach. Mother, pray tell meHow came he by his death? what was the quarrel?
Corn. Indeed, my younger boy presum'd too muchUpon his manhood, gave him bitter words,Drew his sword first; and so, I know not how,For I was out of my wits, he fell with 's headJust in my bosom.
Page. That is not true, madam.
Corn. I pray thee, peace.One arrow 's graze'd already; it were vainT' lose this, for that will ne'er be found again.
Brach. Go, bear the body to Cornelia's lodging:And we command that none acquaint our duchessWith this sad accident. For you, Flamineo,Hark you, I will not grant your pardon.
Flam. No?
Brach. Only a lease of your life; and that shall lastBut for one day: thou shalt be forc'd each eveningTo renew it, or be hang'd.
Flam. At your pleasure.[Lodovico sprinkles Brachiano's beaver with a poison.Enter FranciscoYour will is law now, I 'll not meddle with it.
Brach. You once did brave me in your sister's lodging:I 'll now keep you in awe for 't. Where 's our beaver?
Fran. [Aside.] He calls for his destruction. Noble youth,I pity thy sad fate! Now to the barriers.This shall his passage to the black lake further;The last good deed he did, he pardon'd murder. [Exeunt.
Charges and shouts. They fight at barriers; first single pairs, then three to three
Enter Brachiano and Flamineo, with others
Brach. An armourer! ud's death, an armourer!
Flam. Armourer! where 's the armourer?
Brach. Tear off my beaver.
Flam. Are you hurt, my lord?
Brach. Oh, my brain 's on fire! [Enter Armourer.The helmet is poison'd.
Armourer. My lord, upon my soul——
Brach. Away with him to torture.There are some great ones that have hand in this,And near about me.
Enter Vittoria Corombona
Vit. Oh, my lov'd lord! poison'd!
Flam. Remove the bar. Here 's unfortunate revels!Call the physicians. [Enter two Physicians.A plague upon you!We have too much of your cunning here already:I fear the ambassadors are likewise poison'd.
Brach. Oh, I am gone already! the infectionFlies to the brain and heart. O thou strong heart!There 's such a covenant 'tween the world and it,They 're loath to break.
Giov. Oh, my most loved father!
Brach. Remove the boy away.Where 's this good woman? Had I infinite worlds,They were too little for thee: must I leave thee?What say you, screech-owls, is the venom mortal?
Physicians. Most deadly.
Brach. Most corrupted politic hangman,You kill without book; but your art to saveFails you as oft as great men's needy friends.I that have given life to offending slaves,And wretched murderers, have I not powerTo lengthen mine own a twelvemonth?[To Vittoria.] Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee.This unctions 's sent from the great Duke of Florence.
Fran. Sir, be of comfort.
Brach. O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twinTo sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded cometStares on thy mild departure; the dull owlBears not against thy casement; the hoarse wolfScents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse,Whilst horror waits on princes'.
Vit. I am lost for ever.
Brach. How miserable a thing it is to die'Mongst women howling! [Enter Lodovico and Gasparo, as Capuchins.What are those?
Flam. Franciscans:They have brought the extreme unction.
Brach. On pain of death, let no man name death to me:It is a word infinitely terrible.Withdraw into our cabinet.[Exeunt all but Francisco and Flamineo.
Flam. To see what solitariness is about dying princes! as heretofore they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made great houses unhospitable, so now, O justice! where are their flatterers now? flatterers are but the shadows of princes' bodies; the least thick cloud makes them invisible.
Fran. There 's great moan made for him.
Flam. 'Faith, for some few hours salt-water will run most plentifully in every office o' th' court; but, believe it, most of them do weep over their stepmothers' graves.
Fran. How mean you?
Flam. Why, they dissemble; as some men do that live without compass o' th' verge.
Fran. Come, you have thrived well under him.
Flam. 'Faith, like a wolf in a woman's breast; I have been fed with poultry: but for money, understand me, I had as good a will to cozen him as e'er an officer of them all; but I had not cunning enough to do it.
Fran. What didst thou think of him? 'faith, speak freely.
Flam. He was a kind of statesman, that would sooner have reckoned how many cannon-bullets he had discharged against a town, to count his expense that way, than think how many of his valiant and deserving subjects he lost before it.
Fran. Oh, speak well of the duke!
Flam. I have done. [Enter Lodovico. Wilt hear some of my court-wisdom? To reprehend princes is dangerous; and to over-commend some of them is palpable lying.
Fran. How is it with the duke?
Lodo. Most deadly ill.He 's fallen into a strange distraction:He talks of battles and monopolies,Levying of taxes; and from that descendsTo the most brain-sick language. His mind fastensOn twenty several objects, which confoundDeep sense with folly. Such a fearful endMay teach some men that bear too lofty crest,Though they live happiest yet they die not best.He hath conferr'd the whole state of the dukedomUpon your sister, till the prince arriveAt mature age.
Flam. There 's some good luck in that yet.
Fran. See, here he comes.[Enter Brachiano, presented in a bed, Vittoria and others.There 's death in 's face already.
Vit. Oh, my good lord!
Brach. Away, you have abus'd me:[These speeches are several kinds of distractions, and in the actionshould appear so.You have convey'd coin forth our territories,Bought and sold offices, oppress'd the poor,And I ne'er dreamt on 't. Make up your accounts,I 'll now be mine own steward.
Flam. Sir, have patience.
Brach. Indeed, I am to blame:For did you ever hear the dusky ravenChide blackness? or was 't ever known the devilRail'd against cloven creatures?
Vit. Oh, my lord!
Brach. Let me have some quails to supper.
Flam. Sir, you shall.
Brach. No, some fried dog-fish; your quails feed on poison.That old dog-fox, that politician, Florence!I 'll forswear hunting, and turn dog-killer.Rare! I 'll be friends with him; for, mark you, sir, one dogStill sets another a-barking. Peace, peace!Yonder 's a fine slave come in now.
Flam. Where?
Brach. Why, there,In a blue bonnet, and a pair of breechesWith a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha!Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins,With pearls o' th' head of them. Do you not know him?
Flam. No, my lord.
Brach. Why, 'tis the devil.I know him by a great rose he wears on 's shoe,To hide his cloven foot. I 'll dispute with him;He 's a rare linguist.
Vit. My lord, here 's nothing.
Brach. Nothing! rare! nothing! when I want money,Our treasury is empty, there is nothing:I 'll not be use'd thus.
Vit. Oh, lie still, my lord!
Brach. See, see Flamineo, that kill'd his brother,Is dancing on the ropes there, and he carriesA money-bag in each hand, to keep him even,For fear of breaking 's neck: and there 's a lawyer,In a gown whipped with velvet, stares and gapesWhen the money will fall. How the rogue cuts capers!It should have been in a halter. 'Tis there; what 's she?
Flam. Vittoria, my lord.
Brach. Ha, ha, ha! her hair is sprinkl'd with orris powder,That makes her look as if she had sinn'd in the pastry.What 's he?
Flam. A divine, my lord.[Brachiano seems here near his end; Lodovico and Gasparo, in the habitof Capuchins, present him in his bed with a crucifix and hallowedcandle.
Brach. He will be drunk; avoid him: th' argumentIs fearful, when churchmen stagger in 't.Look you, six grey rats that have lost their tailsCrawl upon the pillow; send for a rat-catcher:I 'll do a miracle, I 'll free the courtFrom all foul vermin. Where 's Flamineo?
Flam. I do not like that he names me so often,Especially on 's death-bed; 'tis a signI shall not live long. See, he 's near his end.
Lodo. Pray, give us leave. Attende, domine Brachiane.
Flam. See how firmly he doth fix his eyeUpon the crucifix.
Vit. Oh, hold it constant!It settles his wild spirits; and so his eyesMelt into tears.
Lodo. Domine Brachiane, solebas in bello tutus esse tuo clypeo; nunchunc clypeum hosti tuo opponas infernali. [By the crucifix.
Gas. Olim hastâ valuisti in bello; nunc hanc sacram hastam vibrabiscontra hostem animarum. [By the hallowed taper.
Lodo. Attende, Domine Brachiane, si nunc quoque probes ea, quæ actasunt inter nos, flecte caput in dextrum.
Gas. Esto securus, Domine Brachiane; cogita, quantum habeas meritorum;denique memineris mean animam pro tuâ oppignoratum si quid essetpericuli.
Lodo. Si nunc quoque probas ea, quæ acta sunt inter nos, flecte caputin lvum.He is departing: pray stand all apart,And let us only whisper in his earsSome private meditations, which our orderPermits you not to hear.[Here, the rest being departed, Lodovico and Gasparo discover themselves.
Gas. Brachiano.
Lodo. Devil Brachiano, thou art damn'd.
Gas. Perpetually.
Lodo. A slave condemn'd and given up to the gallows,Is thy great lord and master.
Gas. True; for thouArt given up to the devil.
Lodo. Oh, you slave!You that were held the famous politician,Whose art was poison.
Gas. And whose conscience, murder.
Lodo. That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs,Ere she was poison'd.
Gas. That had your villainous sallets.
Lodo. And fine embroider'd bottles, and perfumes,Equally mortal with a winter plague.
Gas. Now there 's mercury——
Lodo. And copperas——
Gas. And quicksilver——
Lodo. With other devilish 'pothecary stuff,A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear?
Gas. This is Count Lodovico.
Lodo. This, Gasparo:And thou shalt die like a poor rogue.
Gas. And stinkLike a dead fly-blown dog.
Lodo. And be forgottenBefore the funeral sermon.
Brach. Vittoria! Vittoria!
Lodo. Oh, the cursed devilComes to himself a gain! we are undone.
Gas. Strangle him in private. [Enter Vittoria and the Attendants.What? Will you call him again to live in treble torments?For charity, for christian charity, avoid the chamber.
Lodo. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love knotSent from the Duke of Florence. [Brachiano is strangled.
Gas. What, is it done?
Lodo. The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' th' world,Though she had practis'd seven year at the pest-house,Could have done 't quaintlier. My lords, he 's dead.
Vittoria and the others come forward
Omnes. Rest to his soul!
Vit. Oh me! this place is hell.
Fran. How heavily she takes it!
Flam. Oh, yes, yes;Had women navigable rivers in their eyes,They would dispend them all. Surely, I wonderWhy we should wish more rivers to the city,When they sell water so good cheap. I 'll tell theeThese are but Moorish shades of griefs or fears;There 's nothing sooner dry than women's tears.Why, here 's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing.Court promises! let wise men count them curs'd;For while you live, he that scores best, pays worst.
Fran. Sure this was Florence' doing.
Flam. Very likely:Those are found weighty strokes which come from th' hand,But those are killing strokes which come from th' head.Oh, the rare tricks of a Machiavellian!He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave,And buffet you to death; no, my quaint knave,He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing,As if you had swallow'd down a pound of saffron.You see the feat, 'tis practis'd in a trice;To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice.
Fran. Now have the people liberty to talk,And descant on his vices.
Flam. Misery of princes,That must of force be censur'd by their slaves!Not only blam'd for doing things are ill,But for not doing all that all men will:One were better be a thresher.Ud's death! I would fain speak with this duke yet.
Fran. Now he 's dead?
Flam. I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oathsWill get to th' speech of him, though forty devilsWait on him in his livery of flames,I 'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand,Though I be blasted. [Exit.
Fran. Excellent Lodovico!What! did you terrify him at the last gasp?
Lodo. Yes, and so idly, that the duke had likeT' have terrified us.
Fran. How?
Enter the Moor
Lodo. You shall hear that hereafter.See, yon 's the infernal, that would make up sport.Now to the revelation of that secretShe promis'd when she fell in love with you.
Fran. You 're passionately met in this sad world.
Zan. I would have you look up, sir; these court tearsClaim not your tribute to them: let those weep,That guiltily partake in the sad cause.I knew last night, by a sad dream I had,Some mischief would ensue: yet, to say truth,My dream most concern'd you.
Lodo. Shall 's fall a-dreaming?
Fran. Yes, and for fashion sake I 'll dream with her.
Zan. Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed.
Fran. Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this lightI was a-dreamt on thee too; for methoughtI saw thee naked.
Zan. Fie, sir! as I told you,Methought you lay down by me.
Fran. So dreamt I;And lest thou shouldst take cold, I cover'd theeWith this Irish mantle.
Zan. Verily I did dreamYou were somewhat bold with me: but to come to 't——
Lodo. How! how! I hope you will not got to 't here.
Fran. Nay, you must hear my dream out.
Zan. Well, sir, forth.
Fran. When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laughExceedingly, methought.
Zan. Laugh!
Fran. And criedst out, the hair did tickle thee.
Zan. There was a dream indeed!
Lodo. Mark her, I pray thee, she simpers like the sudsA collier hath been wash'd in.
Zan. Come, sir; good fortune tends you. I did tell youI would reveal a secret: Isabella,The Duke of Florence' sister, was empoisone'dBy a fum'd picture; and Camillo's neckWas broke by damn'd Flamineo, the mischanceLaid on a vaulting-horse.
Fran. Most strange!
Zan. Most true.
Lodo. The bed of snakes is broke.
Zan. I sadly do confess, I had a handIn the black deed.
Fran. Thou kept'st their counsel.
Zan. Right;For which, urg'd with contrition, I intendThis night to rob Vittoria.
Lodo. Excellent penitence!Usurers dream on 't while they sleep out sermons.
Zan. To further our escape, I have entreatedLeave to retire me, till the funeral,Unto a friend i' th' country: that excuseWill further our escape. In coin and jewelsI shall at least make good unto your useAn hundred thousand crowns.
Fran. Oh, noble wench!
Lodo. Those crowns we 'll share.
Zan. It is a dowry,Methinks, should make that sun-burnt proverb false,And wash the Æthiop white.
Fran. It shall; away.
Zan. Be ready for our flight.
Fran. An hour 'fore day. [Exit Zanche.Oh, strange discovery! why, till now we knew notThe circumstances of either of their deaths.
Re-enter Zanche
Zan. You 'll wait about midnight in the chapel?
Fran. There. [Exit Zanche.
Lodo. Why, now our action 's justified.
Fran. Tush for justice!What harms it justice? we now, like the partridge,Purge the disease with laurel; for the fameShall crown the enterprise, and quit the shame. [Exeunt.
Enter Flamineo and Gasparo, at one door; another way, Giovanni, attended
Gas. The young duke: did you e'er see a sweeter prince?
Flam. I have known a poor woman's bastard better favoured—this is behind him. Now, to his face—all comparisons were hateful. Wise was the courtly peacock, that, being a great minion, and being compared for beauty by some dottrels that stood by to the kingly eagle, said the eagle was a far fairer bird than herself, not in respect of her feathers, but in respect of her long talons: his will grow out in time. —My gracious lord.
Giov. I pray leave me, sir.
Flam. Your grace must be merry; 'tis I have cause to mourn; for wot you, what said the little boy that rode behind his father on horseback?
Giov. Why, what said he?
Flam. When you are dead, father, said he, I hope that I shall ride in the saddle. Oh, 'tis a brave thing for a man to sit by himself! he may stretch himself in the stirrups, look about, and see the whole compass of the hemisphere. You 're now, my lord, i' th' saddle.