The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe White DevilThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The White DevilAuthor: John WebsterRelease date: July 16, 2004 [eBook #12915]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Julie C. Sparks*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE DEVIL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The White DevilAuthor: John WebsterRelease date: July 16, 2004 [eBook #12915]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Julie C. Sparks
Title: The White Devil
Author: John Webster
Author: John Webster
Release date: July 16, 2004 [eBook #12915]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Julie C. Sparks
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE DEVIL ***
Produced by Julie C. Sparks
In publishing this tragedy, I do but challenge myself that liberty, which other men have taken before me; not that I affect praise by it, for, nos hæc novimus esse nihil, only since it was acted in so dull a time of winter, presented in so open and black a theatre, that it wanted (that which is the only grace and setting-out of a tragedy) a full and understanding auditory; and that since that time I have noted, most of the people that come to that playhouse resemble those ignorant asses (who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books), I present it to the general view with this confidence:
Nec rhoncos metues maligniorum,Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas.
If it be objected this is no true dramatic poem, I shall easily confess it, non potes in nugas dicere plura meas, ipse ego quam dixi; willingly, and not ignorantly, in this kind have I faulted: For should a man present to such an auditory, the most sententious tragedy that ever was written, observing all the critical laws as height of style, and gravity of person, enrich it with the sententious Chorus, and, as it were Life and Death, in the passionate and weighty Nuntius: yet after all this divine rapture, O dura messorum ilia, the breath that comes from the incapable multitude is able to poison it; and, ere it be acted, let the author resolve to fix to every scene this of Horace:
—Hæc hodie porcis comedenda relinques.
To those who report I was a long time in finishing this tragedy, I confess I do not write with a goose-quill winged with two feathers; and if they will need make it my fault, I must answer them with that of Euripides to Alcestides, a tragic writer: Alcestides objecting that Euripides had only, in three days composed three verses, whereas himself had written three hundred: Thou tallest truth (quoth he), but here 's the difference, thine shall only be read for three days, whereas mine shall continue for three ages.
Detraction is the sworn friend to ignorance: for mine own part, I have ever truly cherished my good opinion of other men's worthy labours, especially of that full and heightened style of Mr. Chapman, the laboured and understanding works of Mr. Johnson, the no less worthy composures of the both worthily excellent Mr. Beaumont and Mr. Fletcher; and lastly (without wrong last to be named), the right happy and copious industry of Mr. Shakespeare, Mr. Dekker, and Mr. Heywood, wishing what I write may be read by their light: protesting that, in the strength of mine own judgment, I know them so worthy, that though I rest silent in my own work, yet to most of theirs I dare (without flattery) fix that of Martial:
—non norunt hæc monumenta mori.
MONTICELSO, a Cardinal; afterwards Pope PAUL the Fourth.FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, Duke of Florence; in the 5th Act disguised for aMoor, under the name of MULINASSAR.BRACHIANO, otherwise PAULO GIORDANO URSINI, Duke of Brachiano, Husbandto ISABELLA, and in love with VITTORIA.GIOVANNI—his Son by ISABELLA.LODOVICO, an Italian Count, but decayed.ANTONELLI, | his Friends, and Dependants of the Duke of Florence.GASPARO, |CAMILLO, Husband to VITTORIA.HORTENSIO, one of BRACHIANO's Officers.MARCELLO, an Attendant of the Duke of Florence, and Brother to VITTORIA.FLAMINEO, his Brother; Secretary to BRACHIANO.JACQUES, a Moor, Servant to GIOVANNI.ISABELLA, Sister to FRANCISCO DE MEDICI, and Wife to BRACHIANO.VITTORIA COROMBONA, a Venetian Lady; first married to CAMILLO, afterwardsto BRACHIANO.CORNELIA, Mother to VITTORIA, FLAMINEO, and MARCELLO.ZANCHE, a Moor, Servant to VITTORIA.Ambassadors, Courtiers, Lawyers, Officers, Physicians, Conjurer,Armourer, Attendants.
Enter Count Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo
Lodo. Banish'd!
Ant. It griev'd me much to hear the sentence.
Lodo. Ha, ha, O Democritus, thy godsThat govern the whole world! courtly rewardAnd punishment. Fortune 's a right whore:If she give aught, she deals it in small parcels,That she may take away all at one swoop.This 'tis to have great enemies! God 'quite them.Your wolf no longer seems to be a wolfThan when she 's hungry.
Gas. You term those enemies,Are men of princely rank.
Lodo. Oh, I pray for them:The violent thunder is adored by thoseAre pasht in pieces by it.
Ant. Come, my lord,You are justly doom'd; look but a little backInto your former life: you have in three yearsRuin'd the noblest earldom.
Gas. Your followersHave swallowed you, like mummia, and being sickWith such unnatural and horrid physic,Vomit you up i' th' kennel.
Ant. All the damnable degreesOf drinking have you stagger'd through. One citizen,Is lord of two fair manors, call'd you master,Only for caviare.
Gas. Those noblemenWhich were invited to your prodigal feasts,(Wherein the phnix scarce could 'scape your throats)Laugh at your misery, as fore-deeming youAn idle meteor, which drawn forth, the earthWould be soon lost i' the air.
Ant. Jest upon you,And say you were begotten in an earthquake,You have ruin'd such fair lordships.
Lodo. Very good.This well goes with two buckets: I must tendThe pouring out of either.
Gas. Worse than these.You have acted certain murders here in Rome,Bloody and full of horror.
Lodo. 'Las, they were flea-bitings:Why took they not my head then?
Gas. O, my lord!The law doth sometimes mediate, thinks it goodNot ever to steep violent sins in blood:This gentle penance may both end your crimes,And in the example better these bad times.
Lodo. So; but I wonder then some great men 'scapeThis banishment: there 's Paulo Giordano Ursini,The Duke of Brachiano, now lives in Rome,And by close panderism seeks to prostituteThe honour of Vittoria Corombona:Vittoria, she that might have got my pardonFor one kiss to the duke.
Ant. Have a full man within you:We see that trees bear no such pleasant fruitThere where they grew first, as where they are new set.Perfumes, the more they are chaf'd, the more they renderTheir pleasing scents, and so afflictionExpresseth virtue fully, whether true,Or else adulterate.
Lodo. Leave your painted comforts;I 'll make Italian cut-works in their gutsIf ever I return.
Gas. Oh, sir.
Lodo. I am patient.I have seen some ready to be executed,Give pleasant looks, and money, and grown familiarWith the knave hangman; so do I; I thank them,And would account them nobly merciful,Would they dispatch me quickly.
Ant. Fare you well;We shall find time, I doubt not, to repealYour banishment.
Lodo. I am ever bound to you.This is the world's alms; pray make use of it.Great men sell sheep, thus to be cut in pieces,When first they have shorn them bare, and sold their fleeces.[Exeunt
Enter Brachiano, Camillo, Flamineo, Vittoria
Brach. Your best of rest.
Vit. Unto my lord the duke,The best of welcome. More lights: attend the duke.[Exeunt Camillo and Vittoria.
Brach. Flamineo.
Flam. My lord.
Brach. Quite lost, Flamineo.
Flam. Pursue your noble wishes, I am promptAs lightning to your service. O my lord!The fair Vittoria, my happy sister,Shall give you present audience—Gentlemen, [Whisper.Let the caroch go on—and 'tis his pleasureYou put out all your torches and depart.
Brach. Are we so happy?
Flam. Can it be otherwise?Observ'd you not to-night, my honour'd lord,Which way soe'er you went, she threw her eyes?I have dealt already with her chambermaid,Zanche the Moor, and she is wondrous proudTo be the agent for so high a spirit.
Brach. We are happy above thought, because 'bove merit.
Flam. 'Bove merit! we may now talk freely: 'bove merit! what is 't you doubt? her coyness! that 's but the superficies of lust most women have; yet why should ladies blush to hear that named, which they do not fear to handle? Oh, they are politic; they know our desire is increased by the difficulty of enjoying; whereas satiety is a blunt, weary, and drowsy passion. If the buttery-hatch at court stood continually open, there would be nothing so passionate crowding, nor hot suit after the beverage.
Brach. Oh, but her jealous husband——
Flam. Hang him; a gilder that hath his brains perished with quicksilveris not more cold in the liver. The great barriers moulted not morefeathers, than he hath shed hairs, by the confession of his doctor. AnIrish gamester that will play himself naked, and then wage alldownward, at hazard, is not more venturous. So unable to please awoman, that, like a Dutch doublet, all his back is shrunk into hisbreaches.Shroud you within this closet, good my lord;Some trick now must be thought on to divideMy brother-in-law from his fair bed-fellow.
Brach. Oh, should she fail to come——
Flam. I must not have your lordship thus unwisely amorous. I myself have not loved a lady, and pursued her with a great deal of under-age protestation, whom some three or four gallants that have enjoyed would with all their hearts have been glad to have been rid of. 'Tis just like a summer bird-cage in a garden: the birds that are without despair to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a consumption for fear they shall never get out. Away, away, my lord. [Exit Brachiano as Camillo enters.
See here he comes. This fellow by his apparelSome men would judge a politician;But call his wit in question, you shall find itMerely an ass in 's foot-cloth. How now, brother?What, travelling to bed with your kind wife?
Cam. I assure you, brother, no. My voyage liesMore northerly, in a far colder clime.I do not well remember, I protest,When I last lay with her.
Flam. Strange you should lose your count.
Cam. We never lay together, but ere morningThere grew a flaw between us.
Flam. 'T had been your partTo have made up that flaw.
Cam. True, but she loathes I should be seen in 't.
Flam. Why, sir, what 's the matter?
Cam. The duke your master visits me, I thank him;And I perceive how, like an earnest bowler,He very passionately leans that wayhe should have his bowl run.
Flam. I hope you do not think——
Cam. That nobleman bowl booty? faith, his cheekHath a most excellent bias: it would fainJump with my mistress.
Flam. Will you be an ass,Despite your Aristotle? or a cuckold,Contrary to your Ephemerides,Which shows you under what a smiling planetYou were first swaddled?
Cam. Pew wew, sir; tell me notOf planets nor of Ephemerides.A man may be made cuckold in the day-time,When the stars' eyes are out.
Flam. Sir, good-bye you;I do commit you to your pitiful pillowStuffed with horn-shavings.
Cam. Brother!
Flam. God refuse me.Might I advise you now, your only courseWere to lock up your wife.
Cam. 'Twere very good.
Flam. Bar her the sight of revels.
Cam. Excellent.
Flam. Let her not go to church, but, like a houndIn leon, at your heels.
Cam. 'Twere for her honour.
Flam. And so you should be certain in one fortnight,Despite her chastity or innocence,To be cuckolded, which yet is in suspense:This is my counsel, and I ask no fee for 't.
Cam. Come, you know not where my nightcap wrings me.
Flam. Wear it a' th' old fashion; let your large ears come through, it will be more easy—nay, I will be bitter—bar your wife of her entertainment: women are more willingly and more gloriously chaste, when they are least restrained of their liberty. It seems you would be a fine capricious, mathematically jealous coxcomb; take the height of your own horns with a Jacob's staff, afore they are up. These politic enclosures for paltry mutton, makes more rebellion in the flesh, than all the provocative electuaries doctors have uttered since last jubilee.
Cam. This doth not physic me——
Flam. It seems you are jealous: I 'll show you the error of it by a familiar example: I have seen a pair of spectacles fashioned with such perspective art, that lay down but one twelve pence a' th' board, 'twill appear as if there were twenty; now should you wear a pair of these spectacles, and see your wife tying her shoe, you would imagine twenty hands were taking up of your wife's clothes, and this would put you into a horrible causeless fury.
Cam. The fault there, sir, is not in the eyesight.
Flam. True, but they that have the yellow jaundice think all objects they look on to be yellow. Jealousy is worse; her fits present to a man, like so many bubbles in a basin of water, twenty several crabbed faces, many times makes his own shadow his cuckold-maker. [Enter Vittoria Corombona.] See, she comes; what reason have you to be jealous of this creature? what an ignorant ass or flattering knave might be counted, that should write sonnets to her eyes, or call her brow the snow of Ida, or ivory of Corinth; or compare her hair to the blackbird's bill, when 'tis liker the blackbird's feather? This is all. Be wise; I will make you friends, and you shall go to bed together. Marry, look you, it shall not be your seeking. Do you stand upon that, by any means: walk you aloof; I would not have you seen in 't.—Sister [my lord attend you in the banqueting-house,] your husband is wondrous discontented.
Vit. I did nothing to displease him; I carved to him at supper-time.
Flam. [You need not have carved him, in faith; they say he is a capon already. I must now seemingly fall out with you.] Shall a gentleman so well descended as Camillo [a lousy slave, that within this twenty years rode with the black guard in the duke's carriage, 'mongst spits and dripping-pans!]—
Cam. Now he begins to tickle her.
Flam. An excellent scholar [one that hath a head fill'd with calves' brains without any sage in them,] come crouching in the hams to you for a night's lodging? [that hath an itch in 's hams, which like the fire at the glass-house hath not gone out this seven years] Is he not a courtly gentleman? [when he wears white satin, one would take him by his black muzzle to be no other creature than a maggot] You are a goodly foil, I confess, well set out [but cover'd with a false stone— yon counterfeit diamond].
Cam. He will make her know what is in me.
Flam. Come, my lord attends you; thou shalt go to bed to my lord.
Cam. Now he comes to 't.
Flam. [With a relish as curious as a vintner going to taste new wine.][To Camillo.] I am opening your case hard.
Cam. A virtuous brother, o' my credit!
Flam. He will give thee a ring with a philosopher's stone in it.
Cam. Indeed, I am studying alchemy.
Flam. Thou shalt lie in a bed stuffed with turtle's feathers; swoon in perfumed linen, like the fellow was smothered in roses. So perfect shall be thy happiness, that as men at sea think land, and trees, and ships, go that way they go; so both heaven and earth shall seem to go your voyage. Shalt meet him; 'tis fix'd, with nails of diamonds to inevitable necessity.
Vit. How shalt rid him hence?
Flam. [I will put brize in 's tail, set him gadding presently.] I have almost wrought her to it; I find her coming: but, might I advise you now, for this night I would not lie with her, I would cross her humour to make her more humble.
Cam. Shall I, shall I?
Flam. It will show in you a supremacy of judgment.
Cam. True, and a mind differing from the tumultuary opinion; for, quænegata, grata.
Flam. Right: you are the adamant shall draw her to you, though you keepdistance off.
Cam. A philosophical reason.
Flam. Walk by her a' th' nobleman's fashion, and tell her you will lie with her at the end of the progress.
Cam. Vittoria, I cannot be induc'd, or as a man would say, incited——
Vit. To do what, sir?
Cam. To lie with you to-night. Your silkworm used to fast every third day, and the next following spins the better. To-morrow at night, I am for you.
Vit. You 'll spin a fair thread, trust to 't.
Flam. But do you hear, I shall have you steal to her chamber about midnight.
Cam. Do you think so? why look you, brother, because you shall not say I 'll gull you, take the key, lock me into the chamber, and say you shall be sure of me.
Flam. In troth I will; I 'll be your jailor once.
Cam. A pox on 't, as I am a Christian! tell me to-morrow how scurvily she takes my unkind parting.
Flam. I will.
Cam. Didst thou not mark the jest of the silkworm?Good-night; in faith, I will use this trick often.
Flam. Do, do, do. [Exit Camillo. So, now you are safe. Ha, ha, ha, thou entanglest thyself in thine own work like a silkworm. [Enter Brachiano.] Come, sister, darkness hides your blush. Women are like cursed dogs: civility keeps them tied all daytime, but they are let loose at midnight; then they do most good, or most mischief. My lord, my lord!
Zanche brings out a carpet, spreads it, and lays on it two fair cushions.Enter Cornelia listening, but unperceived.
Brach. Give credit: I could wish time would stand still,And never end this interview, this hour;But all delight doth itself soon'st devour.Let me into your bosom, happy lady,Pour out, instead of eloquence, my vows.Loose me not, madam, for if you forgo me,I am lost eternally.
Vit. Sir, in the way of pity,I wish you heart-whole.
Brach. You are a sweet physician.
Vit. Sure, sir, a loathed cruelty in ladiesIs as to doctors many funerals:It takes away their credit.
Brach. Excellent creature!We call the cruel fair; what name for youThat are so merciful?
Zan. See now they close.
Flam. Most happy union.
Corn. [Aside.] My fears are fall'n upon me: oh, my heart!My son the pander! now I find our houseSinking to ruin. Earthquakes leave behind,Where they have tyranniz'd, iron, or lead, or stone;But woe to ruin, violent lust leaves none.
Brach. What value is this jewel?
Vit. 'Tis the ornament of a weak fortune.
Brach. In sooth, I 'll have it; nay, I will but changeMy jewel for your jewel.
Flam. Excellent;His jewel for her jewel: well put in, duke.
Brach. Nay, let me see you wear it.
Vit. Here, sir?
Brach. Nay, lower, you shall wear my jewel lower.
Flam. That 's better: she must wear his jewel lower.
Vit. To pass away the time, I 'll tell your graceA dream I had last night.
Brach. Most wishedly.
Vit. A foolish idle dream:Methought I walked about the mid of nightInto a churchyard, where a goodly yew-treeSpread her large root in ground: under that yew,As I sat sadly leaning on a grave,Chequer'd with cross-sticks, there came stealing inYour duchess and my husband; one of themA pickaxe bore, th' other a rusty spade,And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge meAbout this yew.
Brach. That tree?
Vit. This harmless yew;They told me my intent was to root upThat well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of itA wither'd blackthorn; and for that they vow'dTo bury me alive. My husband straightWith pickaxe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchessWith shovel, like a fury, voided outThe earth and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methoughtI trembled, and yet for all this terrorI could not pray.
Flam. No; the devil was in your dream.
Vit. When to my rescue there arose, methought,A whirlwind, which let fall a massy armFrom that strong plant;And both were struck dead by that sacred yew,In that base shallow grave that was their due.
Flam. Excellent devil!She hath taught him in a dreamTo make away his duchess and her husband.
Brach. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream.You are lodg'd within his arms who shall protect youFrom all the fevers of a jealous husband,From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess.I 'll seat you above law, and above scandal;Give to your thoughts the invention of delight,And the fruition; nor shall governmentDivide me from you longer, than a careTo keep you great: you shall to me at onceBe dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and all.
Corn. [Advancing.] Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our fall!
Flam. What fury raised thee up? away, away. [Exit Zanche.
Corn. What make you here, my lord, this dead of night?Never dropp'd mildew on a flower here till now.
Flam. I pray, will you go to bed then,Lest you be blasted?
Corn. O that this fair gardenHad with all poison'd herbs of ThessalyAt first been planted; made a nurseryFor witchcraft, rather than a burial plotFor both your honours!
Vit. Dearest mother, hear me.
Corn. O, thou dost make my brow bend to the earth.Sooner than nature! See the curse of children!In life they keep us frequently in tears;And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.
Brach. Come, come, I will not hear you.
Vit. Dear my lord.
Corn. Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke?Thou little dream'st this night she 's come to Rome.
Flam. How! come to Rome!
Vit. The duchess!
Brach. She had been better——
Corn. The lives of princes should like dials move,Whose regular example is so strong,They make the times by them go right, or wrong.
Flam. So, have you done?
Corn. Unfortunate Camillo!
Vit. I do protest, if any chaste denial,If anything but blood could have allay'dHis long suit to me——
Corn. I will join with thee,To the most woeful end e'er mother kneel'd:If thou dishonour thus thy husband's bed,Be thy life short as are the funeral tearsIn great men's——
Brach. Fie, fie, the woman's mad.
Corn. Be thy act Judas-like; betray in kissing:May'st thou be envied during his short breath,And pitied like a wretch after his death!
Vit. O me accurs'd! [Exit.
Flam. Are you out of your wits? my lord,I 'll fetch her back again.
Brach. No, I 'll to bed:Send Doctor Julio to me presently.Uncharitable woman! thy rash tongueHath rais'd a fearful and prodigious storm:Be thou the cause of all ensuing harm. [Exit.
Flam. Now, you that stand so much upon your honour,Is this a fitting time a' night, think you,To send a duke home without e'er a man?I would fain know where lies the mass of wealthWhich you have hoarded for my maintenance,That I may bear my beard out of the levelOf my lord's stirrup.
Corn. What! because we are poorShall we be vicious?
Flam. Pray, what means have youTo keep me from the galleys, or the gallows?My father prov'd himself a gentleman,Sold all 's land, and, like a fortunate fellow,Died ere the money was spent. You brought me upAt Padua, I confess, where I protest,For want of means—the University judge me—I have been fain to heel my tutor's stockings,At least seven years; conspiring with a beard,Made me a graduate; then to this duke's service,I visited the court, whence I return'dMore courteous, more lecherous by far,But not a suit the richer. And shall I,Having a path so open, and so freeTo my preferment, still retain your milkIn my pale forehead? No, this face of mineI 'll arm, and fortify with lusty wine,'Gainst shame and blushing.
Corn. O that I ne'er had borne thee!
Flam. So would I;I would the common'st courtesan in RomeHad been my mother, rather than thyself.Nature is very pitiful to whores,To give them but few children, yet those childrenPlurality of fathers; they are sureThey shall not want. Go, go,Complain unto my great lord cardinal;It may be he will justify the act.Lycurgus wonder'd much, men would provideGood stallions for their mares, and yet would sufferTheir fair wives to be barren.
Corn. Misery of miseries! [Exit.
Flam. The duchess come to court! I like not that.We are engag'd to mischief, and must on;As rivers to find out the oceanFlow with crook bendings beneath forced banks,Or as we see, to aspire some mountain's top,The way ascends not straight, but imitatesThe subtle foldings of a winter's snake,So who knows policy and her true aspect,Shall find her ways winding and indirect.
Enter Francisco de Medicis, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor
Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived?
Isab. Not yet, sir.
Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind;If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's,I would set fire on 't were 't but to destroyThe polecats that haunt to it—My sweet cousin!
Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse,And armour.
Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin.Marcello, see it fitted.
Marc. My lord, the duke is here.
Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen.
Isab. I do beseech you,Entreat him mildly, let not your rough tongueSet us at louder variance; all my wrongsAre freely pardon'd; and I do not doubt,As men to try the precious unicorn's hornMake of the powder a preservative circle,And in it put a spider, so these armsShall charm his poison, force it to obeying,And keep him chaste from an infected straying.
Fran. I wish it may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineoenter.] Void the chamber.You are welcome; will you sit?—I pray, my lord,Be you my orator, my heart 's too full;I 'll second you anon.
Mont. Ere I begin,Let me entreat your grace forgo all passion,Which may be raised by my free discourse.
Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed.
Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends,That you, having as 'twere enter'd the worldWith a free scepter in your able hand,And having to th' use of nature well appliedHigh gifts of learning, should in your prime ageNeglect your awful throne for the soft downOf an insatiate bed. O my lord,The drunkard after all his lavish cupsIs dry, and then is sober; so at length,When you awake from this lascivious dream,Repentance then will follow, like the stingPlac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princesWhen fortune blasteth but a petty flowerOf their unwieldy crowns, or ravishethBut one pearl from their scepter; but alas!When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame,All princely titles perish with their name.
Brach. You have said, my lord——
Mont. Enough to give you tasteHow far I am from flattering your greatness.
Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you?Do not like young hawks fetch a course about;Your game flies fair, and for you.
Fran. Do not fear it:I 'll answer you in your own hawking phrase.Some eagles that should gaze upon the sunSeldom soar high, but take their lustful ease,Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.You know Vittoria?
Brach. Yes.
Fran. You shift your shirt there,When you retire from tennis?
Brach. Happily.
Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune,Yet she wears cloth of tissue.
Brach. What of this?Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal,As part of her confession at next shrift,And know from whence it sails?
Fran. She is your strumpet——
Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath,And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine,All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers,Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,Durst not supplant her.
Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder.Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had givenBoth her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fastIn her last winding sheet, when I gave theeBut one.
Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then.
Fran. True:Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution,Shall ne'er do so by thee.
Brach. Spit thy poison.
Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whipAt her own girdle. Look to 't, for our angerIs making thunderbolts.
Brach. Thunder! in faith,They are but crackers.
Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon.
Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds,And gunpowder in thy nostrils.
Fran. Better that,Than change perfumes for plasters.
Brach. Pity on thee!'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd,Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee,Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.
Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any furtherWithout a milder limit.
Fran. Willingly.
Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you baitA lion thus?
Mont. My lord!
Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir.
Fran. We send unto the duke for conference'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord dukeIs not at home: we come ourself in person;Still my lord duke is busied. But we fearWhen Tiber to each prowling passengerDiscovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord—'Bout moulting time I mean—we shall be certainTo find you sure enough, and speak with you.
Brach. Ha!
Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle.But to express the sonnet by natural reason,[Enter Giovanni.When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.
Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a championShall end the difference between you both;Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords,What hopes you store in him; this is a casketFor both your crowns, and should be held like dear.Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore knowIt is a more direct and even way,To train to virtue those of princely blood,By examples than by precepts: if by examples,Whom should he rather strive to imitateThan his own father? be his pattern then,Leave him a stock of virtue that may last,Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast.
Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier?
Giov. Give me a pike.
Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin?
Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord,Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me,Might not a child of good discretionBe leader to an army?
Fran. Yes, cousin, a young princeOf good discretion might.
Giov. Say you so?Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a generalShould not endanger his own person oft;So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback,Like a Danske drummer,—Oh, 'tis excellent!—He need not fight! methinks his horse as wellMight lead an army for him. If I live,I 'll charge the French foe in the very frontOf all my troops, the foremost man.
Fran. What! what!
Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow,But bid them follow me.
Brach. Forward lapwing!He flies with the shell on 's head.
Fran. Pretty cousin!
Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war,All prisoners that I take, I will set free,Without their ransom.
Fran. Ha! without their ransom!How then will you reward your soldiers,That took those prisoners for you?
Giov. Thus, my lord:I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widowsThat falls that year.
Fran. Why then, the next year following,You 'll have no men to go with you to war.
Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war,And then the men will follow.
Mont. Witty prince!
Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man,Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast.Come, you and I are friends.
Brach. Most wishedly:Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set,Knit the more strongly.
Fran. Call Camillo hither.—You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count LodowickIs turn'd a pirate?
Brach. Yes.
Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess.We now will leave you, and expect from youNothing but kind entreaty.
Brach. You have charm'd me.[Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni.Enter IsabellaYou are in health, we see.
Isab. And above health,To see my lord well.
Brach. So: I wonder muchWhat amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome.
Isab. Devotion, my lord.
Brach. Devotion!Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin?
Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I thinkThe oftener that we cast our reckonings up,Our sleep will be the sounder.
Brach. Take your chamber.
Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry!Doth not my absence from you, now two months,Merit one kiss?
Brach. I do not use to kiss:If that will dispossess your jealousy,I 'll swear it to you.
Isab. O, my loved lord,I do not come to chide: my jealousy!I am to learn what that Italian means.You are as welcome to these longing arms,As I to you a virgin.
Brach. Oh, your breath!Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic,The plague is in them!
Isab. You have oft, for these two lips,Neglected cassia, or the natural sweetsOf the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd.My lord, I should be merry: these your frownsShow in a helmet lovely; but on me,In such a peaceful interview, methinksThey are too roughly knit.
Brach. O dissemblance!Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learntThe trick of impudent baseness to complainUnto your kindred?
Isab. Never, my dear lord.
Brach. Must I be hunted out? or was 't your trickTo meet some amorous gallant here in Rome,That must supply our discontinuance?
Isab. Pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my deathTurn to your ancient pity, though not love.
Brach. Because your brother is the corpulent duke,That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortlyRacket away five hundred crowns at tennis,But it shall rest 'pon record! I scorn himLike a shav'd Polack: all his reverend witLies in his wardrobe; he 's a discreet fellow,When he 's made up in his robes of state.Your brother, the great duke, because h' 'as galleys,And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat,(Now all the hellish furies take his soul!)First made this match: accursed be the priestThat sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue!
Isab. Oh, too, too far you have curs'd!
Brach. Your hand I 'll kiss;This is the latest ceremony of my love.Henceforth I 'll never lie with thee; by this,This wedding-ring, I 'll ne'er more lie with thee!And this divorce shall be as truly kept,As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well:Our sleeps are sever'd.
Isab. Forbid it the sweet unionOf all things blessed! why, the saints in heavenWill knit their brows at that.
Brach. Let not thy loveMake thee an unbeliever; this my vowShall never, on my soul, be satisfiedWith my repentance: let thy brother rageBeyond a horrid tempest, or sea-fight,My vow is fixed.
Isab. O, my winding-sheet!Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord,Let me hear once more, what I would not hear:Never?
Brach. Never.
Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy,As I upon a woeful widow'd bedShall pray for you, if not to turn your eyesUpon your wretched wife and hopeful son,Yet that in time you 'll fix them upon heaven!
Brach. No more; go, go, complain to the great duke.
Isab. No, my dear lord; you shall have present witnessHow I 'll work peace between you. I will makeMyself the author of your cursed vow;I have some cause to do it, you have none.Conceal it, I beseech you, for the wealOf both your dukedoms, that you wrought the meansOf such a separation: let the faultRemain with my supposed jealousy,And think with what a piteous and rent heartI shall perform this sad ensuing part.
Enter Francisco, Flamineo, Monticelso, and Camillo
Brach. Well, take your course.—My honourable brother!
Fran. Sister!—This is not well, my lord.—Why, sister!—She merits notthis welcome.
Brach. Welcome, say!She hath given a sharp welcome.
Fran. Are you foolish?Come, dry your tears: is this a modest courseTo better what is naught, to rail and weep?Grow to a reconcilement, or, by heaven,I 'll ne'er more deal between you.
Isab. Sir, you shall not;No, though Vittoria, upon that condition,Would become honest.
Fran. Was your husband loudSince we departed?
Isab. By my life, sir, no,I swear by that I do not care to lose.Are all these ruins of my former beautyLaid out for a whore's triumph?
Fran. Do you hear?Look upon other women, with what patienceThey suffer these slight wrongs, and with what justiceThey study to requite them: take that course.
Isab. O that I were a man, or that I had powerTo execute my apprehended wishes!I would whip some with scorpions.
Fran. What! turn'd fury!
Isab. To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her lieSome twenty months a-dying; to cut offHer nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth;Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophiesOf my just anger! Hell, to my affliction,Is mere snow-water. By your favour, sir;—Brother, draw near, and my lord cardinal;—Sir, let me borrow of you but one kiss;Henceforth I 'll never lie with you, by this,This wedding-ring.
Fran. How, ne'er more lie with him!
Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly keptAs if in thronged court a thousand earsHad heard it, and a thousand lawyers' handsSealed to the separation.
Brach. Ne'er lie with me!
Isab. Let not my former dotageMake thee an unbeliever; this my vowShall never on my soul be satisfiedWith my repentance: manet alta mente repostum.
Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad,And jealous woman.
Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking.
Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn,You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee,For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vowAnd take your chamber.
Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua;I will not stay a minute.
Mont. Oh, good madam!
Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour;Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach,And then she 'll turn in post.
Fran. To see her comeTo my lord for a dispensationOf her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter.
Isab. 'Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break:Those are the killing griefs, which dare not speak.' [Exit.
Marc. Camillo's come, my lord.
Enter Camillo
Fran. Where 's the commission?
Marc. 'Tis here.
Fran. Give me the signet.
Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning.
Enter Doctor
Brach. About the murder?
Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy.Here 's another property too.
Brach. Oh, the doctor!
Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.
Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colorable execution.
Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin.
Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire!
Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord.
Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!
Brach. No more.—I must employ thee, honest doctor:You must to Padua, and by the way,Use some of your skill for us.
Doctor. Sir, I shall.
Brach. But for Camillo?
Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain,Men shall suppose him by 's own engine slain.But for your duchess' death——
Doctor. I 'll make her sure.
Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.
Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, theyrise as gallows in the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders.[Exeunt. Monticelso, Camillo, and Francisco come forward.
Mont. Here is an emblem, nephew, pray peruse it:'Twas thrown in at your window.
Cam. At my window!Here is a stag, my lord, hath shed his horns,And, for the loss of them, the poor beast weeps:The word, Inopem me copia fecit.
Mont. That is,Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns.
Cam. What should this mean?
Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given outYou are a cuckold.
Cam. Is it given out so?I had rather such reports as that, my lord,Should keep within doors.
Fran. Have you any children?
Cam. None, my lord.
Fran. You are the happier:I 'll tell you a tale.
Cam. Pray, my lord.
Fran. An old tale.Upon a time Phbus, the god of light,Or him we call the sun, would need to be married:The gods gave their consent, and MercuryWas sent to voice it to the general world.But what a piteous cry there straight aroseAmongst smiths and felt-makers, brewers and cooks,Reapers and butter-women, amongst fishmongers,And thousand other trades, which are annoyedBy his excessive heat! 'twas lamentable.They came to Jupiter all in a sweat,And do forbid the banns. A great fat cookWas made their speaker, who entreats of JoveThat Phbus might be gelded; for if now,When there was but one sun, so many menWere like to perish by his violent heat,What should they do if he were married,And should beget more, and those childrenMake fireworks like their father? So say I;Only I apply it to your wife;Her issue, should not providence prevent it,Would make both nature, time, and man repent it.
Mont. Look you, cousin,Go, change the air for shame; see if your absenceWill blast your cornucopia. MarcelloIs chosen with you joint commissioner,For the relieving our Italian coastFrom pirates.
Marc. I am much honour'd in 't.
Cam. But, sir,Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sproutedGreater than those are shed.
Mont. Do not fear it;I 'll be your ranger.
Cam. You must watch i' th' nights;Then 's the most danger.
Fran. Farewell, good Marcello:All the best fortunes of a soldier's wishBring you a-shipboard.
Cam. Were I not best, now I am turn'd soldier,Ere that I leave my wife, sell all she hath,And then take leave of her?
Mont. I expect good from you,Your parting is so merry.
Cam. Merry, my lord! a' th' captain's humour right,I am resolved to be drunk this night. [Exeunt.
Fran. So, 'twas well fitted; now shall we discernHow his wish'd absence will give violent wayTo Duke Brachiano's lust.
Mont. Why, that was it;To what scorn'd purpose else should we make choiceOf him for a sea-captain? and, besides,Count Lodowick, which was rumour'd for a pirate,Is now in Padua.
Fran. Is 't true?
Mont. Most certain.I have letters from him, which are suppliantTo work his quick repeal from banishment:He means to address himself for pensionUnto our sister duchess.
Fran. Oh, 'twas well!We shall not want his absence past six days:I fain would have the Duke Brachiano runInto notorious scandal; for there 's naughtIn such cursed dotage, to repair his name,Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.
Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourableTo play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,For my revenge I 'd stake a brother's life,That being wrong'd, durst not avenge himself.
Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.
Mont. Curse of greatness!Sure he 'll not leave her?
Fran. There 's small pity in 't:Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather,Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.
Enter Brachiano, with one in the habit of a conjurer
Brach. Now, sir, I claim your promise: 'tis dead midnight,The time prefix'd to show me by your art,How the intended murder of Camillo,And our loath'd duchess, grow to action.
Conj. You have won me by your bounty to a deedI do not often practise. Some there are,Which by sophistic tricks, aspire that nameWhich I would gladly lose, of necromancer;As some that use to juggle upon cards,Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat;Others that raise up their confederate spirits'Bout windmills, and endanger their own necksFor making of a squib; and some there areWill keep a curtal to show juggling tricks,And give out 'tis a spirit; besides these,Such a whole ream of almanac-makers, figure-flingers,Fellows, indeed that only live by stealth,Since they do merely lie about stol'n goods,They 'd make men think the devil were fast and loose,With speaking fustian Latin. Pray, sit down;Put on this nightcap, sir, 'tis charmed; and nowI 'll show you, by my strong commanding art,The circumstance that breaks your duchess' heart.
A Dumb Show
Enter suspiciously Julio and Christophero: they draw a curtain where Brachiano's picture is; they put on spectacles of glass, which cover their eyes and noses, and then burn perfumes before the picture, and wash the lips of the picture; that done, quenching the fire, and putting off their spectacles, they depart laughing.