Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha't:—how strong
Imagination works! how she can frame
Things 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 deem
Things supernatural, which yet have cause
Common as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy.—
How cam'st thou by thy death?—How idle am I
To question mine own idleness!—Did ever
Man dream awake till now?—Remove this object;
Out of my brain with't: what have I to do
With 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 sights
Than 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 suit
Thus halts to her in verse.—[Writes.
I have done it rarely: O the fate of princes!
I am so used to frequent flattery,
That, being alone, I now flatter myself:
But it will serve; 'tis sealed.
Enter Servant.
Bear this
To the house of convertites, and watch your leisure
To give it to the hands of Corombona,
Or to the matron, when some followers
Of 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 dead
Till I can play at football with thy head.
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.[67]
[Exit.
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—A Room in the House of Convertites.
Enter the Matron and Flamineo.
Matron. Should it be known the duke hath such recourse
To your imprisoned sister, I were like
To incur much damage by it.
Flam. Not a scruple:
The Pope lies on his death-bed, and their heads
Are troubled now with other business
Then guarding of a lady.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Yonder's Flamineo in conference
With the matrona.—Let me speak with you;
I would entreat you to deliver for me
This letter to the fair Vittoria.
Matron. I shall, sir.
Serv. With all care and secrecy:
Hereafter you shall know me, and receive
Thanks for this courtesy. [Exit.
Flam. How now! what's that?
Matron. A letter.
Flam. To my sister? I'll see't delivered.
Enter Brachiano.
Brach. What's that you read, Flamineo?
Flam. Look.
Brach. Ha! [Reads.] "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 man
Should know what fowl is coffined in a baked meat
Afore you cut it up.
Brach. I'll open't, were't her heart.—What's here subscribed!
"Florence!" this juggling is gross and palpable:
I have found out the conveyance.—Read it, read it.
Flam. [Reads.] "Your tears I'll turn to triumphs, be but mine:
Your prop is fall'n: I pity, that a vine,
Which princes heretofore have longed 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 uncontrollèd arm
Lead you to Florence, where my love and care
Shall 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' the bed-straw—
"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 the irregular north wind sweep her up,
And blow her into his nostrils! Where's this whore?
Flam. That what do you call her?
Brach. O, I could be mad,
Prevent[68] the cursed disease[69] 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. No, you pander?
Flam. What, me, my lord? am I your dog?
Brach. A blood-hound: do you brave, do you stand me?
Flam. Stand you! let those that have diseases run;
I need no plasters.
Brach. Would you be kicked?
Flam. Would you have your neck broke?
I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;[70]
My shins must be kept whole.
Brach. Do you know me?
Flam. O, 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 salad,[71] 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. O, sir, I would not go before a politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool.
Enter Vittoria Corombona.
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 advancèd whore.
Vit. Cor. Say, sir?
Brach. Come, come, let's see your cabinet, discover
Your treasury of love-letters. Death and Furies!
I'll see them all.
Vit. Cor. Sir, upon my soul,
I have not any. Whence was this directed?
Brach. Confusion on your politic ignorance!
You are reclaimed,[72] are you? I'll give you the bells,
And let you fly to the devil.
Flam. Ware hawk, my lord.
Vit. Cor. "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! they are plots.
Your beauty! O, ten thousand curses on't!
How long have I beheld the devil in crystal![73]
Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice,
With music and with fatal yokes of flowers,
To my eternal ruin. Woman to man
Is either a god or a wolf.
Vit. Cor. 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 funerals
With howling past wild Irish.
Flam. Fie, my lord!
Brach. That hand, that cursèd hand, which I have wearied
With doting kisses!—O my sweetest duchess,
How lovely art thou now!—My loose thoughts
Scatter like quicksilver: I was bewitched;
For all the world speaks ill of thee.
Vit. Cor. 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. Cor. Whose death God revenge
On thee, most godless duke!
Flam. Now for two whirlwinds.
Vit. Cor. What have I gained by thee but infamy?
Thou hast stained the spotless honour of my house,
And frighted thence noble society:
Like those, which, sick o' the palsy, and retain
Ill-scenting foxes 'bout them, are still shunned
By those of choicer nostrils. What do you call this house?
Is this your palace? did not the judge style it
A house of penitent whores? who sent me to it?
Who hath the honour to advance Vittoria
To this incontinent college? is't not you?
Is't not your high preferment? Go, go, brag
How 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 go
Weeping to Heaven on crutches. For your gifts,
I will return them all; and I do wish
That I could make you full executor
To all my sins. O, that I could toss myself
Into a grave as quickly! for all thou art worth
I'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. Cor. Yes, I now weep poniards, do you see?
Brach. Are not those matchless eyes mine?
Vit. Cor. I had rather
They were not matchless.
Brach. Is not this lip mine?
Vit. Cor. Yes; thus to bite it off, rather than give it thee.
Flam. Turn to my lord, good sister.
Vit. Cor. Hence, you pander!
Flam. Pander! am I the author of your sin?
Vit. Cor. 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 to express
That I will love thee everlastingly,
And never more be jealous.
Vit. Cor. 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 make
A bonfire.
Flam. O, no oaths, for God's sake!
Brach. Will you hear me?
Vit. Cor. Never.
Flam. What a damned imposthume is a woman's will!
Can nothing break it?—Fie, fie, my lord,
Women are caught as you take tortoises;
She must be turned on her back.—Sister, by this hand,
I am on your side.—Come, come, you have wronged 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 ware
When once 'tis toused and sullied?—And yet, sister,
How scurvily this frowardness becomes you!
Young leverets stand not long; and women's anger
Should, like their flight, procure a little sport;
A full cry for a quarter of an hour,
And then be put to the dead quat.[74]
Brach. Shall these eyes,
Which have so long time dwelt upon your face,
Be now put out?
Flam. No cruel landlady i' the world,
Which lends forth groats to broom-men, and takes use for them,
Would do't.—
Hand her, my lord, and kiss her: be not like
A ferret, to let go your hold with blowing.
Brach. Let us renew right hands.
Vit. Cor. Hence!
Brach. Never shall rage or the forgetful wine
Make me commit like fault.
Flam. Now you are i' the way on't, follow't hard.
Brach. Be thou at peace with me, let all the world
Threaten 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 woman
Is a still water under a great bridge;
A man may shoot her safely.
Vit. Cor. O ye dissembling men!—
Flam. We sucked that, sister,
From women's breasts, in our first infancy.
Vit. Cor. To add misery to misery!
Brach. Sweetest,—
Vit. Cor. Am I not low enough?
Ay, ay, your good heart gathers like a snow-ball,
Now your affection's cold.
Flam. Ud'sfoot, it shall melt
To a heart again, or all the wine in Rome
Shall run o' the lees for't.
Vit. Cor. Your dog or hawk should be rewarded better
Than I have been. I'll speak not one word more.
Flam. Stop her mouth with a sweet kiss, my lord. So,
Now the tide's turned, the vessel's come about.
He's a sweet armful. O, we curled-haired men
Are still most kind to women! This is well.
Brach. That you should chide thus!
Flam. O, sir, your little chimneys
Do 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 in ingrateful Rome—
Flam. Rome! it deserves to be called Barbary
For our villainous usage.
Brach. Soft! the same project which the Duke of Florence
(Whether in love or gullery 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 entered
The conclave for the 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 amain
For 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 lives in the river Nilus, hath a worm breeds
i' the teeth of't, which puts it to extreme anguish:
a little bird, no bigger than a wren, is barber-surgeon
to this crocodile; flies into the jaws of't,
picks out the worm, and brings present remedy.
The fish, glad of ease, but ingrateful to her that
did it, that the bird may not talk largely of her
abroad for non-payment, closeth her chaps, intending
to swallow her, and so put her to perpetual
silence. But nature, loathing such ingratitude,
hath armed this bird with a quill or prick in the
head, the top o' which wounds the crocodile i' the
mouth, forceth her to open her bloody prison, and
away flies the pretty tooth-picker from her cruel
patient.[75]
Brach. Your application is, I have not rewarded
The service you have done me.
Flam. No, my lord.—
You, sister, are the crocodile: you are blemished in
your fame, my lord cures it; and though the comparison
hold not in every particle, yet observe, remember
what good the bird with the prick i' the head
hath done you, and scorn ingratitude.—
It may appear to some ridiculous [Aside.
Thus to talk knave and madman, and sometimes,
Come in with a dried sentence, stuft with sage:
But this allows my varying of shapes;
Knaves do grow great by being great men's apes.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Before a Church.
Enter Francisco de Medicis, Lodovico, Gasparo, and six Ambassadors.
Fran. de Med. So, my lord, I commend your diligence.
Guard well the conclave; and, as the order is,
Let none have conference with the cardinals.
Lod. I shall, my lord.—Room for the ambassadors!
Gasp. They're wondrous brave[76] to-day: why do they wear
These several habits?
Lod. O, sir, they are knights
Of several orders:
That lord i' the 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 the Annunciation; the Englishman
Is Knight of the honoured Garter, dedicated
Unto their saint, St. George. I could describe to you
Their several institutions, with the laws
Annexèd to their orders; but that time
Permits not such discovery.
Fran. de Med. Where's Count Lodowick?
Lod. Here, my lord.
Fran. de Med. 'Tis o' the point of dinner time:
Marshal the cardinals' service.
Lod. Sir, I shall.
Enter Servants, with several dishes covered.
Stand, let me search your dish: who's this for?
Serv. For my Lord Cardinal Monticelso.
Lod. Whose this?
Serv. For my Lord Cardinal of Bourbon.
Fr. Am. Why doth he search the dishes? to observe
What meat is drest?
Eng. Am. No, sir, but to prevent
Lest any letters should be conveyed in,
To bribe or to solicit the advancement
Of any cardinal. When first they enter,
'Tis lawful for the ambassadors of princes
To enter with them, and to make their suit
For any man their prince affecteth best;
But after, till a general election,
No man may speak with them.
Lod. You that attend on the lord cardinals,
Open the window, and receive their viands!
A Cardinal. [At the window.]
You must return the service: the lord cardinals
Are busied 'bout electing of the Pope;
They have given over scrutiny, and are fall'n
To admiration.
Lod. Away, away!
Fran. de Med. I'll lay a thousand ducats you hear news.
Of a Pope presently. Hark! sure, he's elected:
Behold, my Lord of Arragon appears
On the church-battlements.
Arragon. [On the church battlements.] Denuntio vobis[77] gaudium magnum. Reverendissimus cardinalis Lorenzo de Monticelso electus est in sedem apostolicam, et elegit sibi nomen Paulum Quartum.
Omnes. Vivat sanctus pater Paulus Quartus!
Enter Servant.
Serv. Vittoria, my lord,—
Fran. de Med. Well, what of her?
Serv. Is fled the city,—
Fran. de Med. Ha!
Serv. With Duke Brachiano.
Fran. de Med. Fled! Where's the Prince Giovanni?
Serv. Gone with his father.
Fran. de Med. Let the matrona of the convertites
Be apprehended.—Fled! O, damnable!
[Exit Servant.
How fortunate are my wishes! why, 'twas this
I only laboured: I did send the letter
To instruct him what to do. Thy fame, fond[78] duke,
I first have poisoned; directed thee the way
To 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 remissionem peccatorum.
My lord reports Vittoria Corombona
Is stol'n from forth the house of convertites
By Brachiano, and they're fled the city.
Now, though this be the first day of our state,
We cannot better please the divine power
Than to sequester from the holy church
These cursèd persons. Make it therefore known,
We do denounce excommunication
Against them both: all that are theirs in Rome
We likewise banish. Set on.
[Exeunt Monticelso, his train, Ambassadors, &c.
Fran. de Med. Come, dear Lodovico;
You have ta'en the sacrament to prosecute
The intended murder.
Lod. With all constancy.
But, sir, I wonder you'll engage yourself
In person, being a great prince.
Fran. de Med. 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.
[Exeunt Fran. de Med. and Gasparo.
Re-enter Monticelso.
Mont. Why did the Duke of Florence with such care
Labour your pardon? say.
Lod. Italian beggars will resolve you that,
Who, begging of an alms, bid those they beg of,
Do good for their own sakes; or it 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 that
That you were raising?
Lod. Devil, my lord!
Mont. I ask you
How doth the duke employ you, that his bonnet
Fell with such compliment unto his knee,
When he departed from you?
Lod. Why, my lord,
He told me of a resty Barbary horse
Which he would fain have brought to the career,
The sault, and the ring-galliard;[79] now, my lord,
I have a rare French rider.
Mont. Take you heed
Lest the jade break your neck. Do you put me off
With your wild horse-tricks? Sirrah, you do lie.
O, thou'rt a foul black cloud, and thou dost threat
A violent storm!
Lod. Storms are i' the air, my lord:
I am too low to storm.
Mont. Wretched creature!
I know that thou art fashioned for all ill,
Like dogs that once get blood, they'll ever kill.
About some murder? was't not?
Lod. 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 utter
Is in confession merely; which you know
Must never be revealed.
Mont. You have o'erta'en me.
Lod. 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 poisoned;
Upon my soul; she was; for which I have sworn
To avenge her murder.
Mont. To the Duke of Florence?
Lod. 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 thee
Comes like sweet showers to over-hardened 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.
Lod. I'll give it o'er; he says 'tis damnable,
Besides I did expect his suffrage,
By reason of Camillo's death.
Re-enter Francisco de Medicis with a Servant.
Fran. de Med. Do you know that count?
Serv. Yes, my lord.
Fran. de Med. Bear him these thousand ducats to his lodging;
Tell him the Pope hath sent them.—[Aside.] Happily
That will confirm him more than all the rest.
[Exit.
Serv. Sir,—[Exit.
Lod. To me, sir?
Serv. His Holiness hath sent you a thousand crowns,
And wills you, if you travel, to make him
Your patron for intelligence.
Lod. His creature ever to be commanded.
[Exit Servant.
Why, now 'tis come about. He railed upon me;
And yet these crowns were told out and laid ready
Before he knew my voyage. O the art,
The modest form of greatness! that do sit,
Like brides at wedding-dinners, with their looks turned
From the least wanton jest, their puling stomach
Sick of the modesty, when their thoughts are loose,
Even acting of those hot and lustful sports
Are to ensue about midnight: such his cunning:
He sounds my depth thus with a golden plummet.
I am doubly armed now. Now to the act of blood,
There's but three Furies found in spacious hell,
But in a great man's breast three thousand dwell.
[Exit.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—An Apartment in a Palace at Padua.
A passage over the stage of Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio, Vittoria Corombona, Cornelia, Zanche, and others.
[Exeunt omnes except Flamineo and Hortensio.
Flam. In all the weary minutes of my life,
Day ne'er broke up till now. This marriage
Confirms me happy.
Hort. 'Tis a good assurance.
Saw you not yet the Moor that's come to court?
Flam. Yes, and conferred with him i'the duke's closet:
I have not seen a goodlier personage,
Nor ever talked with man better experienced
In state affairs or rudiments of war:
He hath, by report, served the Venetian
In Candy these twice seven years, and been chief
In many a bold design.
Hort. What are those two
That 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 all the court, entered into religion, into 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, next their 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 grow
Some wars between us and the Duke of Florence,
In which he hopes employment.
I never saw one in a stern bold look
Wear more command, nor in a lofty phrase
Express more knowing or more deep contempt
Of our slight airy courtiers. He talks
As if he had travelled all the princes' courts
Of Christendom: in all things strives to express,
That all that should dispute with him may know,
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.—
The duke!
Re-enter Brachiano; with Francisco de Medicis disguised like Mulinassar, Lodovico, Antonelli, Gasparo, Farnese, Carlo, and Pedro, bearing their swords and helmets; and Marcello.
Brach. You are nobly welcome. We have heard at full
Your honourable service 'gainst the Turk.
To you, brave Mulinassar, we assign
A competent pension: and are inly sorry,
The vows of those two worthy gentlemen
Make them incapable of our proffered bounty.
Your wish is, you may leave your warlike swords
For monuments in our chapel: I accept it
As a great honour done me, and must crave
Your leave to furnish out our duchess' revels.
Only one thing, as the last vanity
You e'er shall view, deny me not to stay
To see a barriers prepared to-night:
You shall have private standings. It hath pleased
The great ambassadors of several princes,
In their return from Rome to their own countries,
To grace our marriage, and to honour me
With such a kind of sport.
Fran. de Med. I shall persuade them
To stay, my lord.
Brach. Set on there to the presence!
[Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello,
and Hortensio.
Car. Noble my lord, most fortunately welcome:
[The Conspirators here embrace.
You have our vows, sealed with the sacrament,
To second your attempts.
Ped. And all things ready:
He could not have invented his own ruin
(Had he despaired) with more propriety.
Lod. You would not take my way.
Fran. de Med. 'Tis better ordered.
Lod. To have poisoned his prayer-book, or a pair of beads,
The pummel of his saddle,[80] his looking-glass,
Or the handle of his racket,—O, that, that!
That while he had been bandying at tennis,
He might have sworn himself to hell, and strook
His soul into the hazard! O, my lord,
I would have our plot be ingenious,
And have it hereafter recorded for example,
Rather than borrow example.
Fran. de Med. There's no way
More speeding than this thought on.
Lod. On, then.
Fran. de Med. 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 pitched field,
Led him to Florence!—
Lod. It had been rare: and there
Have crowned him with a wreath of stinking garlic,
To have shown the sharpness of his government
And rankness of his lust.—Flamineo comes.
[Exeunt Lodovico, Antonelli, Gasparo,
Farnese, Carlo, and Pedro.
Re-enter Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche.
Mar. 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.
Mar. She is your shame.
Flam. I prithee, 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 him
In our own language.
Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche.
How is't, brave soldier? O, that I had seen
Some of your iron days! I pray, relate
Some of your service to us.
Fran. de Med. '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.
Mar. You're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from you.
Fran. de Med. 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 on the 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. [Aside]. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would tell them stories.
Mar. I have been a soldier too.
Fran. de Med. How have you thrived?
Mar. Faith, poorly.
Fran. de Med. 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' the 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 the ears as his endeared minion.
Fran. de Med. And thou mayst do the devil knows what villany.
Flam. And safely.
Fran. de Med. 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 instructions. The duke says he will give you a pension: that's but bare promise; get it under his hand. For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for three 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 miserable courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one three quarters dead o' the rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again to endure more dogdays. [Exit Francisco de Medicis.
Re-enter Hortensio and Zanche, with a Young Lord and two others.
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 up-start; 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 the 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 villany. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears: but for fear of 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 gipsey.
Zanche. 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 confident
They have a certain spice of the disease;
For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas.
Zanche. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you love 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 divers.
Zanche. 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 sun-burnt gentleman?
Re-enter Cornelia.
Cor. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to the stews.
[Striking Zanche.
Flam. You should be clapt by the heels now: strike i' the court!
[Exit Cornelia.
Zanche. She's good for nothing, but to make her maids
Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bed-staff
For fear of her light fingers.
Mar. You're a strumpet,
An impudent one. [Kicking Zanche.
Flam. Why do you kick her, say?
Do you think that she is like a walnut tree?
Must she be cudgelled ere she bear good fruit?
Mar. She brags that you shall marry her.
Flam. What then?
Mar. I had rather she were pitched upon a stake
In some new-seeded garden, to affright
Her fellow crows thence.
Flam. You're a boy, a fool:
Be guardian to your hound; I am of age.
Mar. If I take her near you, I'll cut her throat.
Flam. With a fan of feathers?
Mar. And, for you, I'll whip
This folly from you.
Flam. Are you choleric?
I'll purge't with rhubarb.
Hort. O, your brother!
Flam. Hang him,
He wrongs me most that ought to offend me least.—
I do suspect my mother played foul play
When she conceived thee.
Mar. Now, by all my hopes,
Like the two slaughtered sons of Œdipus,
The very flames of our affection
Shall turn two ways. Those words I'll make thee answer
With thy heart-blood.
Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress:
You know where you shall find me.
Mar. Very good. [Exit Flamineo.
An thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword,
And bid him fit the length on't.
Young Lord. Sir, I shall.
[Exeunt Young Lord, Marcello, Hortensio,
and the two others.
Zanche. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace!
Re-enter Francisco de Medicis.
I ne'er loved my complexion till now,
'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush,
I love you.
Fran. de Med. 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.
Zanche. 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. de Med. I'll think on the motion.
Zanche. Do: I'll now
Detain you no longer. At your better leisure
I'll tell you things shall startle your blood:
Nor blame me that this passion I reveal;
Lovers die inward that their flames conceal. [Exit.
Fran. de Med. Of all intelligence this may prove the best:
Sure, I shall draw strange fowl from this foul nest.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—Another Apartment in the Same.
Enter Marcello and Cornelia.
Cor. I hear a whispering all about the court
You are to fight: who is your opposite?
What is the quarrel?
Mar. 'Tis an idle rumour.
Cor. Will you dissemble? sure, you do not well
To 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.
Mar. Publish not a fear
Which would convert to laughter: 'tis not so.
Was not this crucifix my father's?
Cor. Yes.
Mar. I have heard you say, giving my brother suck,
He took the crucifix between his hands,
And broke a limb off.
Cor. Yes; but 'tis mended.
Enter Flamineo.
Flam. I have brought your weapon back.
[Runs Marcello through.
Cor. Ha! O my horror!
Mar. You have brought it home, indeed.
Cor. Help! O, he's murdered!
Flam. Do you turn your gall up? I'll to sanctuary,
And send a surgeon to you. [Exit.
Enter Carlo, Hortensio, and Pedro.
Hort. How! o' the ground!
Mar. O mother, now remember what I told
Of breaking of the crucifix! Farewell.
There are some sins which Heaven doth duly punish
In a whole family. This it is to rise
By 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.
Cor. O my perpetual sorrow!
Hort. Virtuous Marcello!
He's dead.—Pray, leave him, lady: come, you shall.
Cor. Alas, he is not dead; he's in a trance. Why, here's nobody shall get any thing by his death. Let me call him again, for God's sake!
Car. I would you were deceived.
Cor. O, 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.
Cor. Let me come to him; give me him as he is: if he be turned to earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both into 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 pains-taking?
Hort. Your kindest office is to pray for him.
Cor. Alas, I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' the ground, and pray for me, if you'll let me come to him.
Enter Brachiano all armed save the beaver, with Flamineo, Francisco de Medicis, Lodovico, and Page.
Brach. Was this your handiwork?
Flam. It was my misfortune.
Cor. 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 grieved mother.
Cor. O you screech-owl!
Hort. Forbear, good madam.
Cor. Let me go, let me go.
[She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and,
coming to him, lets it fall.
The God of Heaven forgive thee! Dost not wonder
I 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 live
To fill an hour-glass with his mouldered ashes,
To tell how thou shouldst spend the time to come
In blest repentance!
Brach. Mother, pray tell me
How came he by his death? what was the quarrel?
Cor. Indeed, my younger boy presumed too much
Upon 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 head
Just in my bosom.
Page. This is not true, madam.
Cor. I pray thee, peace.
One arrow's grazed already: it were vain
To 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 duchess
With 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 last
But for one day: thou shalt be forced each evening
To renew it, or be hanged.
Flam. At your pleasure.
[Lodovico sprinkles Brachiano's beaver with a
poison.
Your 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 de Med. [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 pardoned murther.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—The Lists at Padua.
Charges and shouts. They fight at barriers; first single pairs, then three to three.
Enter Brachiano, Vittoria Corombona, Giovanni, Francisco de Medicis, Flamineo, with others.
Brach. An armorer! ud's death, an armorer!
Flam. Armorer! where's the armorer?
Brach. Tear off my beaver.
Flam. Are you hurt, my lord?
Brach. O, my brain's on fire!
Enter Armorer.
The helmet is poisoned.
Armorer. 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.
Vit. Cor. O my loved lord! poisoned!
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 poisoned.
Brach. O, I am gone already! the infection
Flies to the brain and heart. O thou strong heart!
There's such a covenant 'tween the world and it,
They're loth to break.
Giov. O my most lovèd 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?
1st Phys. Most deadly.
Brach. Most corrupted politic hangman,
You kill without book; but your art to save
Fails you as oft as great men's needy friends.
I that have given life to offending slaves
And wretched murderers, have I not power
To lengthen mine own a twelvemonth?—
Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee.
This unction's sent from the great Duke of Florence.
Fran. de Med. Sir, be of comfort.
Brach. O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin
To sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded comet
Stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl
Beats not against thy casement; the hoarse wolf
Scents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse,
Whilst horror waits on princes.
Vit. Cor. I am lost for ever.
Brach. How miserable a thing it is to die
Mongst women howling!
Enter Lodovico and Gasparo, in the habit of 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 except Francisco de Medicis 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. de Med. There's great moan made for him.
Flam. Faith, for some few hours salt-water will run most plentifully in every office o' the court: but, believe it, most of them do but weep over their stepmothers' graves.
Fran. de Med. How mean you?
Flam. Why, they dissemble; as some men do that live within compass o' the verge.
Fran. de Med. Come, you have thrived well under him.
Flam. Faith, like a wolf in a woman's breast;[81] 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. de Med. 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 expence that way, than how many of his valiant and deserving subjects he lost before it.
Fran. de Med. O, speak well of the duke.
Flam. I have done. Wilt hear some of my court-wisdom? To reprehend princes is dangerous; and to over-commend some of them is palpable lying.
Re-enter Lodovico.
Fran. de Med. How is it with the duke?
Lod. Most deadly ill.
He's fall'n into a strange distraction:
He talks of battles and monopolies,
Levying of taxes; and from that descends
To the most brain-sick language. His mind fastens
On twenty several objects, which confound
Deep sense with folly. Such a fearful end
May teach some men that bear too lofty crest,
Though they live happiest, yet they die not best.
He hath conferred the whole state of the dukedom
Upon your sister, till the prince arrive
At mature age.
Flam. There's some good luck in that yet.
Fran. de Med. See, here he comes.
Enter Brachiano, presented in a bed,[82] Vittoria Corombona, Gasparo, and Attendants.
There's death in's face already.
Vit. Cor. O my good lord!
Brach. Away! you have abused me:
[These speeches are several kinds of distractions,
and in the action should appear so.
You have conveyed coin forth our territories;
Bought and sold offices, oppressed 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 raven
Chide blackness? or was't ever known the devil
Railed against cloven creatures?
Vit. Cor. O 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 dog
Still 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 breeches
With a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha!
Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins,
With pearls o' the head of them. Do not you know him?
Flam. No, my lord.
Brach. Why, 'tis the devil;
I know him by a great rose[83] he wears on's shoe,
To hide his cloven foot. I'll dispute with him;
He's a rare linguist.
Vit. Cor. My lord, here's nothing.
Brach. Nothing! rare! nothing! when I want money,
Our treasury is empty, there is nothing:
I'll not be used thus.
Vit. Cor. O, lie still, my lord!
Brach. See, see Flamineo, that killed his brother,
Is dancing on the ropes there, and he carries
A money-bag in each hand, to keep him even,
For fear of breaking's neck: and there's a lawyer,
In a gown whipt with velvet, stares and gapes
When 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 sprinkled with arras-powder,[84]
That makes her look as if she had sinned in the pastry,—
What's he?
Flam. A divine, my lord.
[Brachiano seems here near his end: Lodovico and Gasparo, in the habit of Capuchins, present him in his bed with a crucifix and hallowed candle.
Brach. He will be drunk; avoid him: the argument
Is fearful, when churchmen stagger in't.
Look you, six grey rats, that have lost their tails,
Crawl up the pillow: send for a rat-catcher:
I'll do a miracle, I'll free the court
From all foul vermin. Where's Flamineo?
Flam. I do not like that he names me so often,
Especially on's death-bed: 'tis a sign [Aside.
I shall not live long.—See, he's near his end.
Lod. Pray, give us leave.—Attende, domine Brachiane.
Flam. See, see how firmly he doth fix his eye
Upon the crucifix.
Vit. Cor. O, hold it constant!
It settles his wild spirits; and so his eyes
Melt into tears.
Lod. Domine Brachiane, solebas in bello tutus esse tuo clypeo; nunc hunc clypeum hosti tuo opponas infernali. [By the crucifix.
Gas. Olim hasta valuisti in bello; nunc hanc sacrum hastam vibrabis contra hostem animarum. [By the hallowed taper.
Lod. Attende, domine Brachiane; si nunc quoque probas ea quæ acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in dextrum.
Gas. Esto securus, domine Brachiane; cogita quantum habeas meritorum; denique memineris meam animam pro tuâ oppignoratam si quid esset periculi.
Lod. Si nunc quoque probas ea quæ acta sunt inter
nos, flecte caput in lævum.—
He is departing: pray, stand all apart,
And let us only whisper in his ears
Some private meditations, which our order
Permits you not to hear.
[Here, the rest being departed, Lodovico and Gasparo discover themselves.
Gas. Brachiano,—
Lod. Devil Brachiano, thou art damned.
Gas. Perpetually.
Lod. A slave condemned and given up to the gallows
Is thy great lord and master.
Gas. True; for thou
Art given up to the devil.
Lod. O you slave!
You that were held the famous politician,
Whose art was poison!
Gas. And whose conscience, murder!
Lod. That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs,
Ere she was poisoned!
Gas. That had your villanous salads!
Lod. And fine embroidered bottles and perfumes,
Equally mortal with a winter-plague!
Gas. Now there's mercury—
Lod. And copperas—
Gas. And quicksilver—
Lod. With other devilish pothecary stuff,
A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear?
Gas. This is Count Lodovico.
Lod. This, Gasparo:
And thou shalt die like a poor rogue.
Gas. And stink
Like a dead fly-blown dog.
Lod. And be forgotten
Before thy funeral sermon.
Brach. Vittoria!
Vittoria!
Lod, O, the cursèd devil
Comes to himself again! we are undone.
Gas. Strangle him in private.
Enter Vittoria Corombona, Francisco de Medicis, Flamineo, and Attendants.
What, will you call him again
To live in treble torments? for charity,
For Christian charity, avoid the chamber.
[Exeunt Vittoria Corombona, Francisco de
Medicis, Flamineo, and Attendants.
Lod. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love-knot
Sent from the Duke of Florence.
[He strangles Brachiano.
Gas. What, is it done?
Lod. The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' the world,
Though she had practised seven year at the pest-house,
Could have done't quaintlier.
Re-enter Vittoria Corombona, Francisco de Medicis, Flamineo, and Attendants.
My lords, he's dead.
Omnes. Rest to his soul!
Vit. Cor. O me! this place is hell. [Exit.
Fran. de Med. How heavily she takes it!
Flam. O, yes, yes;
Had women navigable rivers in their eyes,
They would dispend them all: surely, I wonder
Why we should wish more rivers to the city,
When they sell water so good cheap. I'll tell thee,
These are but moonish 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 cursed,
For while you live, he that scores best pays worst.
Fran. de Med. Sure, this was Florence' doing.
Flam. Very likely.
Those are found weighty strokes which come from the hand,
But those are killing strokes which come from the head.
O, the rare tricks of a Machiavelian!
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 swallowed down a pound of saffron.
You see the feat, 'tis practised in a trice;
To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice.
Fran. de Med. Now have the people liberty to talk,
And descant on his vices.
Flam. Misery of princes,
That must of force be censured by their slaves!
Not only blamed 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. de Med. Now he's dead?
Flam. I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths
Will get to the speech of him, though forty devils
Wait on him in his livery of flames,
I'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand,
Though I be blasted. [Exit.
Fran. de Med. Excellent Lodovico!
What, did you terrify him at the last gasp?
Lod. Yes, and so idly, that the duke had like
To have terrified us.
Fran. de Med. How?
Lod. You shall hear that hereafter.
Enter Zanche.
See, yon's the infernal that would make up sport.
Now to the revelation of that secret
She promised when she fell in love with you.
Fran. de Med. You're passionately met in this sad world.
Zanche. I would have you look up, sir; these court-tears
Claim 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 concerned you.
Lod. Shall's fall a-dreaming?
Fran. de Med. Yes; and for fashion sake I'll dream with her.
Zanche. Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed.
Fran. de Med. Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this light,
I was a-dreamt on thee too; for methought
I saw thee naked.
Zanche. Fie, sir! As I told you,
Methought you lay down by me.
Fran. de Med. So dreamt I;
And lest thou shouldst take cold, I covered thee
With this Irish mantle.
Zanche. Verily, I did dream
You were somewhat bold with me: but to come to't—
Lod. How, how! I hope you will not go to't here.
Fran. de Med. Nay, you must hear my dream out.
Zanche. Well, sir, forth.
Fran. de Med. When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laugh
Exceedingly, methought.
Zanche. Laugh!
Fran. de Med. And cried'st out,
The hair did tickle thee.
Zanche. There was a dream indeed!
Lod. Mark her, I prithee; she simpers like the suds
A collier hath been washed in.
Zanche. Come, sir, good fortune tends you. I did tell you
I would reveal a secret: Isabella,
The Duke of Florence' sister, was impoisoned
By a fumed picture; and Camillo's neck
Was broke by damned Flamineo, the mischance
Laid on a vaulting-horse.
Fran. de Med. Most strange!
Zanche. Most true.
Lod. The bed of snakes is broke.
Zanche. I sadly do confess I had a hand
In the black deed.
Fran. de Med. Thou kept'st their counsel?
Zanche. Right;
For which, urged with contrition, I intend
This night to rob Vittoria.
Lod. Excellent penitence!
Usurers dream on't while they sleep out sermons.
Zanche. To further our escape, I have entreated
Leave to retire me, till the funeral,
Unto a friend i' the country: that excuse
Will further our escape. In coin and jewels
I shall at least make good unto your use
An hundred thousand crowns.
Fran. de Med. O noble wench!
Lod. Those crowns we'll share.
Zanche. It is a dowry,
Methinks, should make that sun-burnt proverb false,
And wash the Æthiop white.
Fran. de Med. It shall. Away!
Zanche. Be ready for our flight.
Fran. de Med. An hour 'fore day. [Exit Zanche.
O strange discovery! why, till now we knew not
The circumstance of either of their deaths.
Re-enter Zanche.
Zanche. You'll wait about midnight in the chapel?
Fran. de Med. There. [Exit Zanche.
Lod. Why, now our action's justified.
Fran. de Med. Tush for justice!
What harms it justice? we now, like the partridge,
Purge the disease with laurel;[85] for the fame
Shall crown the enterprize, and quit the shame.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—An Apartment in a Palace at Padua.
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,[86] 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!
Gio. 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?