SCENE I.--_An Apartment in a Palace at Padua._

PLAYS BY

WEBSTER & TOURNEUR

_WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_

BY

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

UNEXPURGATED EDITION.

[THE MERMAID SERIES.]

LONDON:

_VIZETELLY & CO._, 16, _HENRIETTA STREET_,

COVENT GARDEN.

1888.

[Transcriber's Note: "The Revenger's Tragedy," attributed here to Cyril

Tourneur, is now generally recognised as the work of Thomas Middleton.]

CONTENTS.

THE GLOBE THEATRE.

JOHN WEBSTER AND CYRIL TOURNEUR.

John Webster:

THE WHITE DEVIL.

THE DUCHESS OF MALFI.

Cyril Tourneur:

THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY.

THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY.

[_Reattributed to Thomas Middleton._]

NOTES.

_THE GLOBE THEATRE._

The first Globe Theatre, on the Bankside, Southwark, "the summer

theatre of Shakespeare and his fellows," is believed to have been built

in 1594, partly of materials removed from the Theatre in Shoreditch,

"the earliest building erected in or near London purposely for scenic

exhibitions." Outside, the Globe was hexagonal in shape, and, like all

the theatres of that epoch, was open at the top, excepting the part

immediately over the stage, which was thatched with straw. The interior

of the theatre was circular. The performances took place by daylight,

and while they were going on a flag with the cross of St. George upon

it was unfurled from the roof. Originally, in place of scenery, the

names of the localities supposed to be represented were inscribed on

boards or hangings for the information of the audience. The sign of the

theatre was a figure of Hercules supporting the globe, beneath which

was written "Totus mundus agit Histrionem."

In 1601, the Globe Theatre was used as a place of meeting by the

conspirators engaged in Essex's rebellion, and next year Shakespeare's

_Hamlet_, following upon other of his plays, was here produced for the

first time. In subsequent years plays by Shakespeare, Webster, Ford,

and contemporary dramatists were performed at the Globe, until in 1613

the theatre was burnt to the ground owing to some lighted paper, thrown

from a piece of ordnance used in the performance, igniting the thatch.

The theatre was rebuilt in the following spring with a tiled roof, and

according to Howes's MS., quoted by Collier in his life of Shakespeare,

"at the great charge of King James and many noblemen and others." Ben

Jonson styled the new theatre "the glory of the Bank and the fort of

the whole parish."

The Globe Theatre was pulled down in 1644 by Sir Matthew Brand with the

view to tenements being erected upon its site, a portion of which at

the present day is occupied by Barclay and Perkins's brewery.

_JOHN WEBSTER AND CYRIL TOURNEUR._

Nothing is known about the lives of John Webster and Cyril Tourneur. We

are ignorant when they were born and when they died. We possess only

meagre hints of what contemporaries thought of them. One allusion to

Tourneur survives, which shows that he was not popular in his lifetime

as a dramatist:--

His fame unto that pitch so only raised

As not to be despised nor too much praised.

A superficial critic speaks of "crabbed Webster, the playwright,

cart-wright," and proceeds, at some length, to deride his laborious

style and obscurity. Commendatory verses by S. Sheppard, Th. Middleton,

W. Shirley, and John Ford prove, however, that Webster's tragedies won

the suffrage of the best judges. None such are printed with Tourneur's

plays.

Webster began to write for the stage as early as 1601. Between that

date and 1607 he worked upon Marston's _Malcontent_, and is supposed

to have collaborated with Dekker in the _History of Sir Th. Wyatt,

Northward Ho,_ and _Westward Ho_. Tourneur began his literary career

by a satire called _Transformed Metamorphosis_, in 1600, which was

followed in 1609 by a _Funeral Poem on the Death of Sir Francis Vere_.

Both he and Webster published Elegies in 1613 upon the death of Prince

Henry.

In this year he was employed upon some business for the Court, as

appears from this passage in the Revels Accounts (ed. Cunningham, p.

xliii.):

To Cyrill Turner, upon a warraunte signed by the Lord Chamberleyne

and Mr. Chauncellor, dated at Whitehall, 23rd December, 1613, for

his chardges and paines in carrying l'res for his Mats. service to

Brussells.... X li.

The amount of this payment renders it improbable that Tourneur's

mission was of any political or diplomatical importance.

We do not know when he commenced playwright; but _The Revenger's

Tragedy_ was licensed in 1607 and printed in the same year. _The

Atheist's Tragedy_ was printed in 1611; it had been written almost

certainly at some earlier period. Webster's _White Devil_ was printed

and probably produced in 1612; his _Duchess of Malfi_, produced perhaps

in 1616, was printed in 1623.

It is needful to dwell on the comparison of these dates, since they

give Tourneur the priority of authorship in a style of tragedy which

both poets cultivated with marked effect. Not to class them together

as the creators of a singular type of drama would be uncritical.

They elaborated similar motives, moved in the same atmosphere of

moral gloom, aimed at the like sententious apophthegms, affected the

same brevity and pungency, handled blank verse and prose on parallel

methods, and owed debts of much the same kind to Shakespeare. That

Webster was the greater writer, as he certainly possessed a finer cast

of mind, and surveyed a wider sphere of human nature in his work, will

be admitted. Yet it seems not impossible that he may have followed

Tourneur's lead in the peculiar form and tone of his two masterpieces.

Speaking broadly, the two best tragedies of Webster and the two

surviving tragedies of Tourneur constitute a distinct species of the

genus which has been termed Tragedy of Blood.[1] It was Kyd, in his

double drama called _The Spanish Tragedy_, who first gave definite

form to this type. Those two plays exhibit the main ingredients of

the Tragedy of Blood--a romantic story of crime and suffering, a

violent oppressor, a wronged man bent upon the execution of some

subtle vengeance, a ghost or two, a notorious villain working as the

tyrant's instrument, and a whole crop of murders, deaths, and suicides

to end the action. What use Shakespeare made of the type, and how he

glorified it in _Hamlet_, is well known. Both Tourneur and Webster,

writing after Shakespeare, had of necessity felt his influence, and

their handling of the species was modified by that of their great

master. Yet they reverted in many important particulars from the

Shakespearean method to Kyd's. The use they both made of the villain, a

personage which Shakespeare discarded, might be cited as distinctive.

Kyd described the villain in the character of his Lazarrotto thus:--

I have a lad in pickle of this stamp,

A melancholy, discontented courtier,

Whose famished jaws look like the chap of death;

Upon whose eyebrow hangs damnation;

Whose hands are washed in rape and murders bold;

Him with a golden bait will I allure,

For courtiers will do anything for gold.

The outlines sketched by Kyd were filled in with touches of diseased

perversity and crippled nobleness by Tourneur in his Vendice, and

were converted into full-length portraits of impressive sombreness by

Webster in his Flamineo and Bosola.

When we compare Tourneur with Webster as artists in the Tragedy of

Blood, the former is seen at once to stand upon a lower level. His

workmanship was rougher and less equal; his insight into nature less

humane, though hardly less incisive; his moral tone muddier and more

venomous; his draughtsmanship spasmodic and uncertain. Tourneur seems

to have invented his own plots; they have the air of being fabricated

after a recipe. This flaw--an apparent insincerity in the choice of

motives--corresponds to the more painful moral flaw which makes his

occasional good work like that of a remorseful and regretful fallen

angel. While we read his plays, the line of Persius rises to our lips:--

Virtutem videant intabescantque relictâ.

Webster, as man and artist, never descends to Tourneur's level. He

selects his two great subjects from Italian story, deriving thence

the pith and marrow of veracity. These subjects he treats carefully

and conscientiously, according to his own conception of the dreadful

depths in human nature revealed to us by sixteenth century Italy. He

does not use the vulgar machinery of revenge and ghosts in order to

evolve an action. In so far as this goes, he may even be said to have

advanced a step beyond _Hamlet_ in the evolution of the Tragedy of

Blood. His dramatic issues are worked out, without much alteration,

from the matter given in the two Italian tales he used. Only he claims

the right to view human fates and fortunes with despair, to paint a

broad black background for his figures, to detach them sharply in

sinister or pathetic relief, and to leave us at the last without a

prospect over hopeful things. "One great Charybdis swallows all," said

the Greek Simonides; and this motto might be chosen for the work of

Shakespeare's greatest pupil in the art of tragedy. Yet Webster never

fails to touch our hearts, and makes us remember a riper utterance upon

the piteousness of man's ephemeral existence:--

Sunt lacrimæ rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt.

It is just this power of blending tenderness and pity with the

exhibition of acute moral anguish by which Webster is so superior to

Tourneur as a dramatist.

Both playwrights have this point in common, that their forte lies not

in the construction of plots, or in the creation of characters, so much

as in an acute sense for dramatic situations. Their plots are involved

and stippled in with slender touches; they lack breadth, and do not

rightly hang together. Their characters, though forcibly conceived,

tend to monotony, and move mechanically. But when it is needful to

develop a poignant, a passionate, or a delicate situation, Tourneur

and Webster show themselves to be masters of their art. They find

inevitable words, the right utterance, not indeed always for their

specific personages, but for generic humanity, under the _peine forte

et dure_ of intense emotional pressure. Webster, being the larger,

nobler, deeper in his touch on nature, offers a greater variety of

situations which reveal the struggles of the human soul with sin and

fate. He is also better able to sustain these situations at a high

dramatic pitch--as in the scene of Vittoria before her judges, and

the scene of the Duchess of Malfi's assassination. Still Tourneur can

display a few such moments by apocalyptic flashes--notably in the

scenes where Vendice deals with his mother and sister.

Both playwrights indulge the late Elizabethan predilection for

conceits. Webster, here as elsewhere, proves himself the finer

artist. He inserts Vittoria's dream, Antonio's dialogue with Echo,

Bosola's Masque of Madmen, accidentally and subserviently to action.

Tourneur enlarges needlessly, but with lurid rhetorical effect,

upon the grisly humours suggested by the skull of Vendice's dead

mistress. Using similar materials, the one asserts his claim to be

called the nobler poet by more steady observance of the Greek precept

"Nothing overmuch." Words to the same effect might be written about

their several employment of blank verse and prose. Both follow

Shakespeare's distribution of these forms, while both run verse into

prose as Shakespeare never did. Yet I think we may detect a subtler

discriminative quality in Webster's most chaotic periods than we can in

Tourneur's; and what upon this point deserves notice is that Webster,

of the two, alone shows lyrical faculty. His three dirges are of

exquisite melodic rhythm, in a rich low minor key; much of his blank

verse has the ring of music; and even his prose suggests the colour of

song by its cadence. This cannot be said of the sinister and arid Muse

of Tourneur. She wears no evergreens of singing, nay, no yew-boughs

even, on her forehead. Her dusky eyes sparkle with sharp metallic

scintillations, as when Castiza says to her mother:--

Come from that poisonous woman there.

_The Revenger's Tragedy_ is an entangled web of lust, incest,

fratricide, rape, adultery, mutual suspicion, hate, and bloodshed,

through which runs, like a thread of glittering copper, the vengeance

of a cynical plague-fretted spirit. Vendice emerges from the tainted

crew of Duke and Duchess, Lussurioso, Spurio and Junior, Ambitioso and

Supervacuo, with a kind of blasted splendour. They are curling and

engendering, a brood of flat-headed asps, in the slime of their filthy

appetites and gross ambitions. He treads and tramples, on them all. But

he bears on his own forehead the brands of Lucifer, the rebel, and of

Cain, the assassin. The social corruption which transformed them into

reptiles, has made him a fiend incarnate. Penetrated to the core with

evil, conscious of sin far more than they are, he towers above them

by his satanic force of purpose. Though ruined, as they are ruined,

and by like causes, he maintains the dignity of mind and of volition.

The right is on his side; the right of a tyrannicide, who has seen his

own mistress, his own father, the wife of his friend, done to death by

the brutalities of wanton princelings. But Tourneur did not choose to

gift Vendice with elevation of nature. In the strongest scene of the

play he showed this scorpion of revenge, stooping to feign a pander's

part, tempting his mother and his sister as none but a moral leper

could have done. In the minor scene of the duke's murder, he made

him malicious beyond the scope of human cruelty and outrage. It was

inherent apparently in this poet's conception of life that evil should

be proclaimed predominant. His cynicism stands self-revealed in the

sentence he puts into Antonio's mouth, condemning Vendice to death:--

You that would murder him would murder me.

Even justice, in his view, rests on egotism. And yet Tourneur has

endowed Vendice with redeeming qualities. The hero of this crooked play

is true to his ideal of duty, true to his sense of honour. He dies

contented because he has perfected his revenge, preserved his sister's

chastity, and converted his mother at the poniard's point. Where all

are so bad and base, Vendice appears by comparison sublime. If we are

to admire tone and keeping in a work of art, we certainly find it here;

for the moral gradations are relentlessly scaled within the key of sin

and pollution. The only character who stirs a pulse of sympathy is

vicious. Castiza is a mere lay figure, and her mother one of the most

repulsive personages of the Jacobean drama.

Webster presents a larger mass of dramatic work to the critic.

Beside the tragedies included in this volume, he wrote another

tragedy, _Appius and Virginia_, a tragi-comedy entitled _The Devil's

Law-case_, and is said to have had a share in the history-play of

_Sir Thomas Wyatt_, and in three comedies, _Northward Ho, Westward

Ho,_ and _A Cure for a Cuckold. The Devil's Law-case_ shows how

much this playwright depended on material supplied him, and how

little he could trust his own inventive faculty. It starts with an

involved plot of Italian deceit and contemplated crime, which Webster

develops in his careful but not very lucid manner. We feel that we

are working toward some sinister _dénouement_, when suddenly, by a

twist of the hand, a favourable turn is given to events, and the play

ends happily--violating probability, artistic tone, and the ethical

integrity of the chief character, Romelio. From _The Famous History

of Sir Thomas Wyatt_ in its present mangled and misshapen form it is

impossible to disengage Webster's handiwork with any certainty. The

same may be said about the brisk and well-wrought pieces _Northward Ho_

and _Westward Ho_. Yet I see no reason to dispute Webster's share in

these three plays. _A Cure for a Cuckold_[2] requires more particular

comment. This comedy was ascribed by the publisher Kirkman to John

Webster and William Rowley. But the ascription stands for absolutely

nothing, unless we can discover corroborative internal evidence of

Webster's collaboration. Such evidence I do not find, although there

is certainly nothing in the play to disprove Kirkman's assertions. It

should be added that a delicate little piece of serio-comic workmanship

lies embedded in the otherwise trashy _Cure for a Cuckold_. Mr. Edmund

Gosse early saw and twice pointed out how easily this play within the

play could be detached from the rest; and the Honourable S. E. Spring

Rice has recently printed, at Mr. Daniel's private press, a beautiful

edition of what, following Mr. Gosse's suggestion, he calls _Love's

Graduate_. I should like to believe that "piece of silver-work," as

Mr. Gosse has aptly called it, to be truly the creation of Webster,

"the sculptor whose other groups are all in bronze." Indeed, there

are no reasons why the belief should not be indulged, except that

Kirkman's ascription carries but a feather's weight, and that there is

nothing special in the style to warrant it. _Love's Graduate_, rescued

from _A Cure for a Cuckold_ by pious hands, is one of the unclaimed

masterpieces of this fruitful epoch.

The great length of Webster's two Italian tragedies rendered it

impossible to print _Appius and Virginia_ in this volume. That is much

to be regretted; for without a study of his Roman play, justice can

hardly be done to the scope and breadth of Webster's genius. Of _Appius

and Virginia_ Mr. Dyce observed with excellent judgment: "this drama

is so remarkable for its simplicity, its deep pathos, its unobtrusive

beauties, its singleness of plot, and the easy, unimpeded march of

its story, that perhaps there are readers who will prefer it to any

other of our author's productions." Webster, who was a Latin scholar,

probably studied the fable in Livy; but its outlines were familiar to

English people through Painter's "Palace of Pleasure." He has drawn

the mutinous camp before Algidum, the discontented city ruled by a

licentious noble, the stern virtues of Icilius and Virginius, and the

innocent girlhood of Virginia with a quiet mastery and self-restraint

which prove that the violent contrasts of his Italian plays were

calculated for a peculiar effect of romance. When treating a classical

subject, he aimed at classical severity of form. The chief interest

of the drama centres in Appius. This character suited Webster's vein.

He delighted in the delineation of a bold, imperious tyrant, marching

through crimes to the attainment of his lawless ends, yet never wholly

despicable. He also loved to analyse the subtleties of a deep-brained

intriguer, changing from open force to covert guile, fawning and

trampling on the objects of his hate by turns, assuming the tone of

diplomacy and the truculence of autocratic will at pleasure, on one

occasion making the worse appear the better cause by rhetoric, on

another espousing evil with reckless cynicism. The variations of such

a character are presented with force and lucidity in _Appius_. Yet the

whole play lacks those sudden flashes of illuminative beauty, those

profound and searching glimpses into the bottomless abyss of human

misery, which render Webster's two Italian tragedies unique. He seems

to have been writing under self-imposed limitations, in order to obtain

a certain desired effect--much in the same way as Ford did when he

composed the irreproachable but somewhat chilling history of _Perkin

Warbeck_.

The detailed criticism of Webster as a dramatist, and the study of his

two chief tragedies in relation to their Italian sources, would lead me

beyond the limits of this Introduction. He is not a poet to be dealt

with by any summary method; for he touches the depths of human nature

in ways that need the subtlest analysis for their proper explanation.

I am, however, loth to close this introduction without a word or two

concerning the peculiarities of Webster's dramatic style.[3] Owing to

condensation of thought and compression of language, his plays offer

considerable difficulties to readers who approach them for the first

time. So many fantastic incidents are crowded into a single action, and

the dialogue is burdened with so much profoundly studied matter, that

the general impression is apt to be blurred. We rise from the perusal

of his Italian tragedies with a deep sense of the poet's power and

personality, an ineffaceable recollection of one or two resplendent

scenes, and a clear conception of the leading characters. Meanwhile the

outlines of the fable, the structure of the drama as a complete work

of art, seem to elude our grasp. The persons, who have played their

part upon the stage of our imagination, stand apart from one another,

like figures in a _tableau vivant. Appius and Virginia_, indeed, proves

that Webster understood the value of a simple plot, and that he was

able to work one out with conscientious firmness. But in _Vittoria

Corombona_ and _The Duchess of Malfi_, each part is etched with equal

effort after luminous effect upon a murky background; and the whole

play is a mosaic of these parts. It lacks the breadth which comes from

concentration on a master-motive. We feel that the author had a certain

depth of tone and intricacy of design in view, combining sensational

effect and sententious pregnancy of diction in works of laboured art.

It is probable that able representation upon the public stage of an

Elizabethan theatre gave them the coherence, the animation, and the

movement which a chamber-student misses. When familiarity has brought

us acquainted with Webster's way of working, we perceive that he treats

terrible and striking subjects with a concentrated vigour special to

his genius. Each word and trait of character has been studied for a

particular effect. Brief lightning flashes of acute self-revelation

illuminate the midnight darkness of the lost souls he has painted.

Flowers of the purest and most human pathos, like Giovanni de Medici's

dialogue with his uncle in _Vittoria Corombona_, bloom by the

charnel-house on which the poet's fancy loved to dwell. The culmination

of these tragedies, setting like stormy suns in blood-red clouds, is

prepared by gradual approaches and degrees of horror. No dramatist

showed more consummate ability in heightening terrific effects, in

laying bare the inner mysteries of crime, remorse, and pain combined

to make men miserable. He seems to have had a natural bias toward the

dreadful stuff with which he deals so powerfully. He was drawn to

comprehend and reproduce abnormal elements of spiritual anguish. The

materials with which he builds are sought for in the ruined places of

abandoned lives, in the agonies of madness and despair, in the sarcasms

of reckless atheism, in slow tortures, griefs beyond endurance,

the tempests of sin-haunted conscience, the spasms of fratricidal

bloodshed, the deaths of frantic hope-deserted criminals. He is often

melodramatic in the means employed to bring these psychological

elements of tragedy home to our imagination. He makes free use of

poisoned engines, daggers, pistols, disguised murderers, masques, and

nightmares. Yet his firm grasp upon the essential qualities of diseased

and guilty human nature, his profound pity for the innocent who suffer

shipwreck in the storm of evil passions not their own, save him, even

at his gloomiest and wildest, from the unrealities and extravagances

into which less potent artists--Tourneur, for example--blundered.

That the tendency to brood on what is ghastly belonged to Webster's

idiosyncrasy appears in his use of metaphor. He cannot say the simplest

thing without giving it a sinister turn--as thus:

You speak as if a man

Should know what fowl is _coffined_ in a baked meat,

Afore you cut it open.

When knaves come to preferment, they rise _as gallowses

are raised_ in the Low Countries, one upon another's

shoulders.

Pleasure of life! what is't? only the _good hours of an

ague_.

I would sooner _eat a dead pigeon taken from the soles of

the feet of one sick of the plague_ than kiss one of you

fasting.

In his dialogue, people bandy phrases like--"O you screech-owl!" and

"Thou foul black cloud!" A sister warns her brother to think twice

before committing suicide, with this weird admonition:--

I prithee, yet remember

Millions are now in graves, which at last day

Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking.

But enough has now been said about these peculiarities of Webster's

dramatic style. It is needful to become acclimatised to his specific

mannerism, both in the way of working and the tone of thinking, before

we can appreciate his real greatness as a dramatic poet and moralist.

Then we recognise the truth of what has recently been written of him by

an acute and sympathetic critic: "There is no poet morally nobler than

Webster."[4]

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

_THE WHITE DEVIL; OR, VITTORIA COROMBONA._

_The White Divel; or, the Tragedy of Paulo Giordano Ursini, Duke of

Brachiano, With the Life and Death of Vittoria Corombona, the famous

Venetian Curtizan_, was printed in 1612, as acted by the Queen's

servants, and again in 1631, 1665, and 1672. In 1707 Nahum Tate

published an alteration called _Injured Love; or, the Cruel Husband_.

Webster founded this play directly on the history of the Duke di

Brachiano and his two wives, of whom the second, Vittoria Accorambaoni,

was the widow of the nephew of Cardinal Montalto, afterwards Pope

Sixtus V.

_TO THE READER._

In publishing this tragedy, I do but challenge to myself that liberty

which other men have ta'en before me: not that I affect praise by it,

for _nos hæc novimus esse nihil_;[5] 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 play-house 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 ronchos metues maligniorum,

Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas.[6]

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_.[7]

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, liven death in the passionate and weighty Nuntius; yet, after

all this divine rapture, _O dura messorum ilia_,[8] the breath that

comes from the uncapable multitude is able to poison it; and, ere it be

acted, let the author resolve to fix to every scene this of Horace,

Hæc porcis hodie comedenda relinques.[9]

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 needs make it my fault, I must answer them with that

of Euripides to Alcestides,[10] a tragic writer. Alcestides objecting

that Euripides had only, in three days, composed three verses, whereas

himself had written three hundred, "Thou tellest truth," quoth he,

"but here's the difference,--thine shall only be read for three days,

whereas mine shall continue 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 Master Chapman; the

laboured and understanding works of Master Jonson; the no less worthy

composures of the both worthily excellent Master Beaumont and Master

Fletcher; and lastly (without wrong last to be named), the right happy

and copious industry of Master Shakespeare, Master Dekker, and Master

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.[11]

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._

MONTICELSO, a Cardinal, afterwards Pope.

Francisco de Medicis, Duke of Florence.

BRACHIANO, otherwise Paulo Giordano Ursini, Duke of Brachiano, Husband

of ISABELLA.

GIOVANNI, his Son.

COUNT LODOVICO.

CAMILLO, Husband of VITTORIA.

FLAMINEO, Brother of VITTORIA, Secretary to BRACHIANO.

MARCELLO, Brother of VITTORIA, Attendant on FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS.

HORTENSIO.

ANTONELLI.

GASPARO.

FARNESE.

CARLO.

PEDRO.

Doctor.

Conjurer.

Lawyer.

JAQUES.

JULIO.

CHRISTOPHERO.

Ambassadors, Physicians, Officers, Attendants, &c.

ISABELLA, Sister of FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, Wife of BRACHIANO.

VITTORIA COROMBONA, married first to CAMILLO, afterwards to BRACHIANO.

CORNELIA, Mother of VITTORIA.

ZANCHE, a Moor, Waiting-woman to VITTORIA.

Matron of the House of Convertites.

SCENE--ROME and PADUA.

_THE WHITE DEVIL; OR, VITTORIA COROMBONA._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.--_A Street in Rome._

_Enter_ Count LODOVICO, ANTONELLI, _and_ GASPARO.

_Lod._ Banished!

_Ant._ It grieved me much to hear the sentence.

_Lod._ Ha, ha! O Democritus, thy gods

That govern the whole world! courtly reward

And 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 quit[12] them!

Your wolf no longer seems to be a wolf

Than when she's hungry.

_Gasp._ You term those enemies

Are men of princely rank.

_Lod._ O, I pray for them:

The violent thunder is adored by those

Are pashed[13] in pieces by it.

_Ant._ Come, my lord,

You are justly doomed: look but a little back

Into your former life; you have in three years

Ruined the noblest earldom.

_Gasp._ Your followers

Have swallowed you like mummia[14] and, being sick

With such unnatural and horrid physic,

Vomit you up i' the kennel.

_Ant._ All the damnable degrees

Of drinkings have you staggered through: one citizen

Is lord of two fair manors called you master

Only for caviare.

_Gasp._ Those noblemen

Which were invited to your prodigal feasts

(Wherein the phœnix scarce could scape your throats)

Laugh at your misery; as fore-deeming you

An idle meteor, which, drawn forth the earth,

Would be soon lost i' the air.

_Ant._ Jest upon you,

And say you were begotten in an earthquake,

You have ruined such fair lordships.

_Lod._ Very good.

This well goes with two buckets: I must tend

The pouring out of either.

_Gasp._ Worse than these;

You have acted certain murders here in Rome,

Bloody and full of horror.

_Lod._ 'Las, they were flea-bitings.

Why took they not my head, then?

_Gasp._ O, my lord,

The law doth sometimes mediate, thinks it good

Not ever to steep violent sins in blood:

This gentle penance may both end your crimes,

And in the example better these bad times.

_Lod._ So; but I wonder, then, some great men scape

This banishment: there's Paulo Giordano Ursini,

The Duke of Brachiano, now lives in Rome,

And by close panderism seeks to prostitute

The honour of Vittoria Corombona;

Vittoria, she that might have got my pardon

For one kiss to the duke.

_Ant._ Have a full man within you.

We see that trees bear no such pleasant fruit

There where they grew first as where they are new set:

Perfumes, the more they are chafed, the more they render

Their pleasing scents; and so affliction

Expresseth virtue fully, whether true

Or else adulterate.

_Lod._ Leave your painted comforts:

I'll make Italian cut-works[15] in their guts,

If ever I return.

_Gasp._ O, sir!

_Lod._ I am patient.

I have seen some ready to be executed

Give pleasant looks and money, and grown familiar

With the knave hangman: so do I: I thank them,

And would account them nobly merciful,

Would they despatch me quickly.

_Ant._ Fare you well:

We shall find time, I doubt not, to repeal

Your banishment.

_Lod._ 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_.

SCENE II.--_An Apartment in_ CAMILLO'S _House._

_Sennet.[16] Enter_ BRACHIANO, CAMILLO, FLAMINEO, VITTORIA COROMBONA,

_and_ Attendants.

_Brach._ Your best of rest!

_Vit. Cor._ Unto my lord, the duke,

The best of welcome!--More lights! attend the duke.

[_Exeunt_ CAMILLO _and_ VITTORIA COROMBONA.

_Brach._ Flamineo,--

_Flam._ My lord?

_Brach._ Quite lost, Flamineo.

_Flam._ Pursue your noble wishes, I am prompt.

As lightning to your service. O, my lord,

The fair Vittoria, my happy sister, [_Whispers._

Shall give you present audience.--Gentlemen,

Let the caroche[17] go on; and 'tis his pleasure

You put out all your torches, and depart.

[_Exeunt_ Attendants.

_Brach._ Are we so happy?

_Flam._ Can't be otherwise?

Observed you not to-night, my honoured 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 proud

To 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? O, 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._ O, but her jealous husband.

_Flam._ Hang him! a gilder that hath his brains perished with

quick-silver is not more cold in the liver: the great barriers moulted

not more feathers[18] than he hath shed hairs, by the confession of his

doctor: an Irish gamester that will play himself naked, and then wage

all downwards at hazard, is not more venturous: so unable to please

a woman, that, like a Dutch doublet, all his back is shrunk into his

breeches.

Shrowd you within this closet, good my lord:

Some trick now must be thought on to divide

My brother-in-law from his fair bedfellow.

_Brach._ O, should she fail to come!

_Flam._ I must not have your lordship thus unwisely amorous. I myself

have 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 birdcage 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.

See, here he comes. This fellow by his apparel

Some men would judge a politician;

But call his wit in question, you shall find it

Merely an ass in's foot-cloth.[19]

_Re-enter_ CAMILLO.[20]

How now, brother!

What, travelling to bed to your kind wife?

_Cam._ I assure you, brother, no; my voyage lies

More 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 morning

There grew a flaw[21] between us.

_Flam._ 'Thad been your part

To 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 way

He should have his bowl run.

_Flam._ I hope you do not think--

_Cam._ That noblemen bowl booty?[22] faith, his cheek

Hath a most excellent bias; it would fain

Jump with my mistress.[23]

_Flam._ Will you be an ass,

Despite your Aristotle? or a cuckold,

Contrary to your Ephemerides,

Which shows you under what a smiling planet

You were first swaddled?

_Cam._ Pew-wew, sir, tell not me

Of planets nor of Ephemerides:

A man may be made a cuckold in the day-time,

When the stars' eyes are out.

_Flam._ Sir, God b' wi' you;

I do commit you to your pitiful pillow

Stuffed with horn-shavings.

_Cam._ Brother,--

_Flam._ God refuse me,

Might I advise you now, your only course

Were 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 hound

In lyam[24] 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 night-cap wrings me.

_Flam._ Wear it o' the 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[25] afore they are up. These politic

inclosures for paltry mutton make more rebellion in the flesh than all

the provocative electuaries doctors have uttered[26] 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 o' the 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 worser; her fits present to a

man, like so many bubbles in a bason of water, twenty several crabbed

faces; many times makes his own shadow his cuckold-maker. See, she

comes.

_Re-enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA.

What reason have you to be jealous of this creature? what an ignorant

ass or flattering knave might he 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. [CAMILLO _retires._] Sister, my lord attends

you in the banqueting-house. Your husband is wondrous discontented.

_Vit. Cor._ I did nothing to displease him: I carved to him at

supper-time.[27]

_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[28] 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 filled 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 covered with a false stone,

yon counterfeit diamond.[29]

_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.--I am opening your case hard. [_To_ CAMILLO.

_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 alchymy.

_Flam._ Thou shalt lie in a bed stuffed with turtles' 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. Shall't meet him; 'tis fixed with nails of diamonds to

inevitable necessity.

_Vit. Cor._ How shall's rid him hence?

_Flam._ I will put the breeze in's tail,--set him gadding

presently.--[_To_ CAMILLO] 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,

_quæ negata, grata_.

_Flam._ Right: you are the adamant[30] shall draw her to you, though

you keep distance off.

_Cam._ A philosophical reason.

_Flam._ Walk by her o' the nobleman's fashion, and tell her you will

lie with her at the end of the progress.[31]

_Cam._ [_Coming forward._] Vittoria, I cannot be induced, or, as a man

would say, incited--

_Vit. Cor._ To do what, sir?

_Cam._ To lie with you to-night. Your silkworm useth to fast every

third day, and the next following spins the better. To-morrow at night

I am for you.

_Vit. Cor._ 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

think 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 gaoler once. But have you ne'er

a false door?

_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; _and_ FLAMINEO _locks the door

on him._] So now you are safe.--Ha, ha, ha! thou entanglest thyself

in thine own work like a silkworm. Come, sister; darkness hides your

blush. Women are like curst 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!

_Re-enter_ BRACHIANO. ZANCHE _brings out a carpet, spreads it, and

lays on it two fair cushions._

_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.

_Enter_ CORNELIA _behind, listening._

Let me into your bosom, happy lady,

Pour out, instead of eloquence, my vows:

Loose me not, madam; for, if you forego me,

I am lost eternally.

_Vit. Cor._ Sir, in the way of pity,

I wish you heart-whole.

_Brach._ You are a sweet physician.

_Vit. Cor._ Sure, sir, a loathèd cruelty in ladies

Is as to doctors many funerals;

It takes away their credit.

_Brach._ Excellent creature!

We call the cruel fair: what name for you

That are so merciful?

_Zan._ See, now they close.

_Flam._ Most happy union.

_Cor._ My fears are fall'n upon me: O, my heart!

My son the pander! now I find our house

Sinking to ruin. Earthquakes leave behind,

Where they have tyrannised, iron, lead, or stone;

But, woe to ruin, violent lust leaves none!

_Brach._ What value is this jewel?

_Vit. Cor._ 'Tis the ornament

Of a weak fortune.

_Brach._ In sooth, I'll have it; nay, I will but change

My jewel for your jewel.

_Flam._ Excellent!

His jewel for her jewel:--well put in, duke.

_Brach._ Nay, let me see you wear it.

_Vit. Cor._ Here, sir?

_Brach._ Nay, lower, you shall wear my jewel lower.

_Flam._ That's better; she must wear his jewel lower.

_Vit. Cor._ To pass away the time, I'll tell your grace

A dream I had last night.

_Brach._ Most wishedly.

_Vit. Cor._ A foolish idle dream.

Methought I walked about the mid of night

Into a church-yard, where a goodly yew-tree

Spread her large root in ground. Under that yew,

As I sate sadly leaning on a grave

Chequered with cross sticks, there came stealing in

Your duchess and my husband: one of them

A pick-axe bore, the other a rusty spade;

And in rough terms they gan to challenge me

About this yew.

_Brach._ That tree?

_Vit. Cor._ This harmless yew:

They told me my intent was to root up

That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it

A withered blackthorn; and for that they vowed

To bury me alive. My husband straight

With pick-axe gan to dig, and your fell duchess

With shovel, like a Fury, voided out

The earth, and scattered bones. Lord, how, methought,

I trembled! and yet, for all this terror,

I could not pray.

_Flam._ No; the devil was in your dream.

_Vit. Cor._ When to my rescue there arose, methought,

A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm

From 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 dream

To make away his duchess and her husband.

_Brach._ Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream.

You are lodged within his arms who shall protect you

From 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 government

Divide me from you longer than a care

To keep you great: you shall to me at once

Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and all.

_Cor._ [_Coming forward_].

Woe to light hearts, they still fore-run our fall!

_Flam._ What Fury raised thee up?--Away, away!

[_Exit_ ZANCHE.

_Cor._ What make you here, my lord, this dead of night?

Never dropped mildew on a flower here

Till now.

_Flam._ I pray, will you go to bed, then,

Lest you be blasted?

_Cor._ O, that this fair garden

Had with all poisoned herbs of Thessaly

At first been planted; made a nursery

For witchcraft, rather than a burial plot

For both your honours!

_Vit. Cor._ Dearest mother, hear me.

_Cor._ 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. Cor._ Dear, my lord,--

_Cor._ Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke?

Thou little dreamd'st this night she is come to Rome.

_Flam._ How! come to Rome!

_Vit. Cor._ The duchess!

_Brach._ She had been better--

_Cor._ 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?

_Cor._ Unfortunate Camillo!

_Vit. Cor._ I do protest, if any chaste denial,

If anything but blood could have allayed

His long suit to me--

_Cor._ I will join with thee,

To the most woeful end e'er mother kneeled:

If thou dishonour thus thy husband's bed,

Be thy life short as are the funeral tears

In great men's--

_Brach._ Fie, fie, the woman's mad.

_Cor._ Be thy act, Judas-like,--betray in kissing:

Mayst thou be envied during his short breath,

And pitied like a wretch after his death!

_Vit. Cor._ O me accursed! [_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 tongue

Hath raised 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 o' night, think you,

To send a duke home without e'er a man?

I would fain know where lies the mass of wealth

Which you have hoarded for my maintenance,

That I may bear my beard out of the level

Of my lord's stirrup.

_Cor._ What! because we are poor

Shall we be vicious?

_Flam._ Pray, what means have you

To keep me from the galleys or the gallows?

My father proved himself a gentleman,

Sold all's land, and, like a fortunate fellow,

Died ere the money was spent. You brought me up

At 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 returned

More courteous, more lecherous by far,

But not a suit the richer: and shall I,

Having a path so open and so free

To my preferment, still retain your milk

In my pale forehead? no, this face of mine

I'll arm, and fortify with lusty wine,

'Gainst shame and blushing.

_Cor._ O, that I ne'er had borne thee.

_Flam._ So would I;

I would the common'st courtezan in Rome

Had been my mother, rather than thyself.

Nature is very pitiful to whores,

To give them but few children, yet those children

Plurality of fathers: they are sure

They shall not want. Go, go,

Complain unto my great lord cardinal;

Yet may be he will justify the act.

Lycurgus wondered much men would provide

Good stallions for their mares, and yet would suffer

Their fair wives to be barren.

_Cor._ Misery of miseries! [_Exit._

_Flam._ The duchess come to court! I like not that.

We are engaged to mischief, and must on:

As rivers to find out the ocean

Flow with crook bendings beneath forcèd banks;

Or as we see, to aspire some mountain's top,

The way ascends not straight, but imitates

The subtle foldings of a winter snake;

So who knows policy and her true aspect,

Shall find her ways winding and indirect.

[_Exit._

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.--_A Room in_ FRANCISCO'S _Palace._

_Enter_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, Cardinal MONTICELSO, MARCELLO, ISABELLA,

GIOVANNI, _with_ JAQUES _the Moor._

_Fran. de Med._ Have you not seen your husband since you arrived?

_Isab._ Not yet, sir.

_Fran. de Med._ 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 destroy

The pole-cats that haunt to it.--My sweet cousin!

_Giov._ Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse

And armour.

_Fran. de Med._ That I did, my pretty cousin.--

Marcello, see it fitted.

_Mar._ My lord, the duke is here.

_Fran. de Med._ Sister, away! you must not yet be seen.

_Isab._ I do beseech you,

Entreat him mildly; let not your rough tongue

Set us at louder variance: all my wrongs

Are freely pardoned; and I do not doubt,

As men, to try the precious unicorn's horn,[32]

Make of the powder a preservative circle,

And in it put a spider, so these arms

Shall charm his poison, force it to obeying,

And keep him chaste from an infected straying.

_Fran. de Med._ I wish it may. Be gone, void the chamber.

[_Exeunt_ ISABELLA, GIOVANNI, _and_ JAQUES.

_Enter_ BRACHIANO _and_ FLAMINEO.

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 forego all passion,

Which may be raisèd by my free discourse.

_Brach._ As silent as i' the church: you may proceed.

_Mont._ It is a wonder to your noble friends,

That you, having, as 'twere, entered the world

With a free sceptre in your able hand,

And to the use of nature well applied

High gifts of learning, should in your prime age

Neglect your awful throne for the soft down

Of an insatiate bed. O, my lord,

The drunkard after all his lavish cups

Is dry, and then is sober; so at length,

When you awake from this lascivious dream,

Repentance then will follow, like the sting

Placed in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes

When fortune blasteth but a petty flower

Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth

But one pearl from their sceptres: 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 taste

How 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. de Med._ Do not fear it:

I'll answer you in your own hawking phrase.

Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun

Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease;

Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.

You know Vittoria!

_Brach._ Yes.

_Fran. de Med._ You shift your shirt there,

When you retire from tennis?

_Brach._ Happily.[33]

_Fran. de Med._ 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. de Med._ 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 borrowed Switzers,

Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,

Durst not supplant her.

_Fran. de Med._ Let's not talk on thunder.

Thou hast a wife, our sister: would I had given

Both her white hands to death, bound and locked fast.

In her last winding-sheet, when I gave thee

But one!

_Brach._ Thou hadst given a soul to God, then.

_Fran. de Med._ True:

Thy ghostly father, with all's absolution,

Shall ne'er do so by thee.

_Brach._ Spit thy poison.

_Fran. de Med._ I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip

At her own girdle. Look to't, for our anger

Is making thunder-bolts.

_Brach._ Thunder! in faith,

They are but crackers.

_Fran. de Med._ 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. de Med._ Better that,

Than change perfumes for plasters.

_Brach._ Pity on thee:

'Twere good you'd show your slaves or men condemned

Your new-ploughed forehead-defiance! And I'll meet thee,

Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.

_Mont._ My lords, you shall not word it any further

Without a milder limit.

_Fran. de Med._ Willingly.

_Brach._ Have you proclaimed a triumph, that you bait

A lion thus!

_Mont._ My lord!

_Brach._ I am tame, I am tame, sir.

_Fran. de Med._ We send unto the duke for conference

'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke

Is not at home: we come ourself in person;

Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear,

When Tiber to each prowling passenger

Discovers flocks of wild ducks; then, my lord,

'Bout moulting time I mean, we shall be certain

To find you sure enough, and speak with you.

_Brach._ Ha!

_Fran. de Med._ A mere tale of a tub, my words are idle;

But to express the sonnet by natural reason,--

When stags grow melancholic, you'll find the season.

_Mont._ No more, my lord: here comes a champion

Shall end the difference between you both,--

_Re-enter_ GIOVANNI.

Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords,

What hopes you store in him: this is a casket

For both your crowns, and should be held like dear.

Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know,

It 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 imitate

Than 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. de Med._ What, practising your pike so young, fair cuz?

_Giov._ Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord,

Tossing my bullrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me,

Might not a child of good discretion

Be leader to an army?

_Fran. de Med._ Yes, cousin, a young prince

Of good discretion might.

_Giov._ Say you so?

Indeed, I have heard, 'tis fit a general

Should not endanger his own person oft;

So that he make a noise when he's o' horseback,

Like a Dansk[34] drummer,--O, 'tis excellent!--

He need not fight:--methinks his horse as well

Might lead an army for him. If I live,

I'll charge the French foe in the very front

Of all my troops, the foremost man.

_Fran. de Med._ 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.[35]

_Fran. de Med._ 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. de Med._ 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 widows

That fall that year.

_Fran. de Med._ 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. de Med._ 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. de Med._ Call Camillo hither.

[_Exit_ MARCELLO.

You have received the rumour, how Count Lodowick

Is turned a pirate?

_Brach._ Yes.

_Fran. de Med._ We are now preparing

Some ships to fetch him in. Behold your duchess.

We now will leave you, and expect from you

Nothing but kind entreaty.

_Brach._ You have charmed me.

[_Exeunt_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, MONTICELSO,

_and_ GIOVANNI. FLAMINEO _retires._

_Re-enter_ ISABELLA.

You are in health, we see.

_Isab._ And above health,

To see my lord well.

_Brach._ So. I wonder much

What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome.

_Isab._ Devotion, my lord.

_Brach._ Devotion!

Is your soul charged with any grievous sin?

_Isab._ 'Tis burdened with too many; and I think,

The oftener that we cast our reckonings up,

Our sleeps 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 lovèd 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._ O, your breath!

Out upon sweet-meats and continued physic,--

The plague is in them!

_Isab._ You have oft, for these two lips,

Neglected cassia or the natural sweets

Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much withered.

My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns

Show in a helmet lovely; but on me,

In such a peaceful interview, methinks

They are too-too roughly knit.

_Brach._ O, dissemblance!

Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt

The trick of impudent baseness, to complain

Unto your kindred?

_Isab._ Never, my dear lord.

_Brach._ Must I be hunted out? or was't your trick

To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome,

That must supply our discontinuance?

_Isab._ I pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death

Turn to your ancient pity, though not love.

_Brach._ Because your brother is the corpulent duke,

That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortly

Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis,

But it shall rest upon record! I scorn him

Like a shaved Polack[36] all his reverend wit

Lies in his wardrobe; he's a discreet fellow

When he is 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: accursèd be the priest

That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue!

_Isab._ O, too-too far you have cursed!

_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 severed.

_Isab._ Forbid it, the sweet union

Of all things blessèd! why, the saints in Heaven

Will knit their brows at that.

_Brach._ Let not thy love

Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow

Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied

With my repentance; let thy brother rage

Beyond a horrid tempest or sea-fight,

My vow is fixèd.

_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._ O my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy,

As I upon a woful widowed bed

Shall pray for you, if not to turn your eyes

Upon 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 witness

How I'll work peace between you. I will make

Myself the author of your cursèd vow;

I have some cause to do, you have none.

Conceal it, I beseech you, for the weal

Of both your dukedoms, that you wrought the means

Of such a separation: let the fault

Remain with my supposèd jealousy;

And think with what a piteous and rent heart

I shall perform this sad ensuing part.

_Re-enter_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ MONTICELSO.

_Brach._ Well, take your course.--My honourable brother!

_Fran. de Med._ Sister!--This is not well, my lord.--Why, sister!--

She merits not this welcome.

_Brach._ Welcome, say!

She hath given a sharp welcome.

_Fran. de Med._ Are you foolish?

Come, dry your tears: is this a modest course,

To 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. de Med._ Was your husband loud

Since 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 beauty

Laid out for a whore's triumph?

_Fran. de Med._ Do you hear?

Look upon other women, with what patience

They suffer these slight wrongs, with what justice

They study to requite them: take that course.

_Isab._ O, that I were a man, or that I had power

To execute my apprehended wishes!

I would whip some with scorpions.

_Fran. de Med._ What! turned Fury!

_Isab._ To dig the strumpet's eyes out; let her lie

Some twenty months a dying; to cut off

Her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth;

Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophies

Of 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. de Med._ How, ne'er more lie with him!

_Isab._ And this divorce shall be as truly kept

As if in throngèd court a thousand ears

Had heard it, and a thousand lawyers' hands

Sealed to the separation.

_Brach._ Ne'er lie with me!

_Isab._ Let not my former dotage

Make thee an unbeliever: this my vow

Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied

With my repentance; _manet alia mente repostum_.[37]

_Fran. de Med._ Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad,

And jealous woman.

_Brach._ You see 'tis not my seeking.

_Fran. de Med._ 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 vow

And take your chamber.

_Isab._ No, sir, I'll presently to Padua;

I will not stay a minute.

_Mont._ O 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. de Med._ To see her come

To my lord cardinal for a dispensation

Of 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._

_Re-enter_ MARCELLO _with_ CAMILLO.

_Mar._ Camillo's come, my lord.

_Fran. de Med._ Where's the commission?

_Mar._ 'Tis here.

_Fran. de Med._ Give me the signet. [FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, MONTICELSO,

CAMILLO, _and_ MARCELLO _retire to the back of the stage._

_Flam._ My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a

medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than

stibium:[38] 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.

_Brach._ About the murder?

_Flam._ They are sending him to Naples, but I'll send him to Candy.

_Enter_ Doctor.

Here's another property too.

_Brach._ O, 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_.

_Doc._ And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and

made pay all the colourable 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 master-piece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to

have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have

poisoned all Dublin.

_Brach._ O, Saint Anthony's fire.

_Doc._ Your secretary is merry, my lord.

_Flam._ O thou cursed antipathy to nature!--Look, his eye's bloodshed,

like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with.--Let me embrace thee,

toad, and love thee, O thou abominable loathsome[39] 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.

_Doc._ 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--

_Doc._ I'll make her sure.

_Brach._ Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.

_Flam._ Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, they

rise as gallowses are raised i' the Low Countries, one upon another's

shoulders. [_Exeunt_ BRACHIANO, FLAMINEO, _and_ Doctor.

SCENE II.--_The same._

FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, MONTICELSO, CAMILLO, _and_ MARCELLO.

_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,[40] _Inopem me copia fecit_.[41]

_Mont._ That is,

Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns.

_Cam._ What should this mean?

_Mont._ I'll tell you: 'tis given out

You are a cuckold.

_Cam._ Is it given out so?

I had rather such report as that, my lord,

Should keep within doors.

_Fran. de Med._ Have you any children?

_Cam._ None, my lord.

_Fran. de Med._ You are the happier:

I'll tell you a tale.

_Cam._ Pray, my lord.

_Fran. de Med._ An old tale.

Upon a time Phœbus, the god of light,

Or him we call the Sun, would needs be married:

The gods gave their consent, and Mercury

Was sent to voice it to the general world.

But what a piteous cry there straight arose

Amongst smiths and felt-makers, brewers and cooks,

Reapers and butterwomen, amongst fishmongers,

And thousand other trades, which are annoyed

By his excessive heat! 'twas lamentable.

They came to Jupiter all in a sweat,

And do forbid the bans. A great fat cook

Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove

That Phœbus might be gelded; for, if now,

When there was but one sun, so many men

Were like to perish by his violent heat,

What should they do if he were married,

And should beget more, and those children

Make fire-works like their father? So say I;

Only I will 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 absence

Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello

Is chosen with you joint commissioner

For the relieving our Italian coast

From pirates.

_Mar._ I am much honoured in't.

_Cam._ But, sir,

Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sprouted

Greater than those are shed.

_Mont._ Do not fear it:

I'll be your ranger.

_Cam._ You must watch i' the nights;

Then's the most danger.

_Fran. de Med._ Farewell, good Marcello:

All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish

Bring you a-ship-board!

_Cam._ Were I not best, now I am turned 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! o' the captain's humour right;

I am resolvèd to be drunk this night.

[_Exeunt_ CAMILLO _and_ MARCELLO.

_Fran. de Med._ So, 'twas well fitted: now shall we discern

How his wished absence will give violent way

To Duke Brachiano's lust.

_Mont._ Why, that was it;

To what scorned purpose else should we make choice

Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides,

Count Lodowick, which was rumoured for a pirate,

Is now in Padua.

_Fran. de Med._ Is't true?

_Mont._ Most certain.

I have letters from him, which are suppliant

To work his quick repeal from banishment:

He means to address himself for pension

Unto our sister duchess.

_Fran. de Med._ O, 'twas well:

We shall not want his absence past six days.

I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run

Into notorious scandal; for there's naught

In such cursed dotage to repair his name,

Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.

_Mont._ It may be objected, I am dishonourable

To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,

For my revenge I'd stake a brother's life,

That, being wronged, durst not avenge himself.

_Fran. de Med._ Come, to observe this strumpet.

_Mont._ Curse of greatness!

Sure he'll not leave her?

_Fran. de Med._ There's small pity in't:

Like misletoe on sear elms spent by weather,

Let him cleave to her, and both rot together.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_A Room in the House of_ CAMILLO.

_Enter_ BRACHIANO, _with a_ Conjurer.

_Brach._ Now, sir, I claim your promise: 'tis dead midnight,

The time prefixed to show me, by your art,

How the intended murder of Camillo

And our loathed duchess grow to action.

_Con._ You have won me by your bounty to a deed

I do not often practise. Some there are

Which by sophistic tricks aspire that name,

Which 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 wind-mills, and endanger their own necks

For making of a squib; and some there are

Will keep a curtal[42] to show juggling tricks,

And give out 'tis a spirit: besides these,

Such a whole realm 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 night-cap, sir, 'tis charmed; and now

I'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, put on spectacles of glass, which

cover their eyes and noses, and then burn perfumes before the picture,

and wash the lips; that done, quenching the fire, and putting off

their spectacles, they depart laughing._

_Enter_ ISABELLA _in her night-gown, as to bed-ward, with lights

after her_, Count LODOVICO, GIOVANNI, GUIDANTONIO, _and others

waiting on her: she kneels down as to prayers, then draws the curtain

of the picture, does three reverences to it, and kisses it thrice;

she faints, and will not suffer them to come near it; dies: sorrow

expressed in_ GIOVANNI _and_ Count LODOVICO: _she is conveyed out

solemnly._

_Brach._ Excellent! then she's dead.

_Con._ She's poisonèd

By the fumed picture. 'Twas her custom nightly,

Before she went to bed, to go and visit

Your picture, and to feed her eyes and lips

On the dead shadow. Doctor Julio,

Observing this, infects it with an oil

And other poisoned stuff, which presently

Did suffocate her spirits.

_Brach._ Methought I saw

Count Lodowick there.

_Con._ He was: and by my art

I find he did most passionately dote

Upon your duchess. Now turn another way,

And view Camillo's far more politic fate.

Strike louder, music, from this charmèd ground,

To yield, as fits the act, a tragic sound!

_The second_ DUMB SHOW.

_Enter_ FLAMINEO, MARCELLO, CAMILLO, _with four others, as_ Captains;

_they drink healths, and dance: a vaulting-horse is brought into the

room:_ MARCELLO _and two others whispered out of the room, while_

FLAMINEO _and_ CAMILLO _strip themselves to their shirts, to vault;

they compliment who shall begin: as_ CAMILLO _is about to vault_,

FLAMINEO _pitcheth him upon his neck, and, with the help of the rest,

writhes his neck about; seems to see if it be broke, and lays him

folded double, as it were, under the horse; makes signs to call for

help:_ MARCELLO _comes in, laments; sends for the_ Cardinal _and_

Duke, _who come forth with armed men; wonder at the act; command the

body to be carried home; apprehend_ FLAMINEO, MARCELLO, _and the rest,

and go, as it were, to apprehend_ VITTORIA.

_Brach._ 'Twas quaintly done; but yet each circumstance

I taste not fully.

_Con._ O, 'twas most apparent:

You saw them enter, charged with their deep healths

To their boon voyage; and, to second that,

Flamineo calls to have a vaulting-horse

Maintain their sport; the virtuous Marcello

Is innocently plotted forth the room;

Whilst your eye saw the rest, and can inform you

The engine of all.

_Brach._ It seems Marcello and Flamineo

Are both committed.[43]

_Con._ Yes, you saw them guarded;

And now they are come with purpose to apprehend

Your mistress, fair Vittoria. We are now

Beneath her roof: 'twere fit we instantly

Make out by some back-postern.

_Brach._ Noble friend,

You bind me ever to you: this shall stand

As the firm seal annexèd to my hand;

It shall enforce a payment.

_Con._ Sir, I thank you. [_Exit_ BRACHIANO.

Both flowers and weeds spring when the sun is warm,

And great men do great good or else great harm.

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.--_The Mansion of_ MONTICELSO.

_Enter_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ MONTICELSO, _their_ Chancellor

_and_ Register.

_Fran. de Med._ You have dealt discreetly, to obtain the presence

Of all the grave lieger[44] ambassadors,

To hear Vittoria's trial.

_Mont._ 'Twas not ill;

For, sir, you know we have naught but circumstances

To charge her with, about her husband's death:

Their approbation, therefore, to the proofs

Of her black lust shall make her infamous

To all our neighbouring kingdoms. I wonder

If Brachiano will be here.

_Fran. de Med._ O fie.

Twere impudence too palpable. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ FLAMINEO _and_ MARCELLO _guarded, and a_ Lawyer.

_Law._ What, are you in by the week? so, I will try now whether thy wit

be close prisoner. Methinks none should sit upon thy sister but old

whore-masters.

_Flam._ Or cuckolds; for your cuckold is your most terrible tickler of

lechery. Whore-masters would serve; for none are judges at tilting but

those that have been old tilters.

_Law._ My lord duke and she have been very private.

_Flam._ You are a dull ass; 'tis threatened they have been very public.

_Law._ If it can be proved they have but kissed one another--

_Flam._ What then?

_Law._ My lord cardinal will ferret them.

_Flam._ A cardinal, I hope, will not catch conies.

_Law._ For to sow kisses (mark what I say), to sow kisses is to reap

lechery; and, I am sure, a woman that will endure kissing is half won.

_Flam._ True, her upper part, by that rule: if you will win her nether

part too, you know what follows.

_Law._ Hark; the ambassadors are lighted.

_Flam._ [_Aside_]. I do put on this feignèd garb of mirth

To gull suspicion.

_Mar._ O my unfortunate sister!

I would my dagger-point had cleft her heart

When she first saw Brachiano: you, 'tis said,

Were made his engine and his stalking-horse,

To undo my sister.

_Flam._ I am a kind of path

To her and mine own preferment.

_Mar._ Your ruin.

_Flam._ Hum! thou art a soldier,

Follow'st the great duke, feed'st his victories,

As witches do their serviceable spirits,

Even with thy prodigal blood: what hast got,

But, like the wealth of captains, a poor handful,

Which in thy palm thou bear'st as men hold water?

Seeking to gripe it fast, the frail reward

Steals through thy fingers.

_Mar._ Sir!

_Flam._ Thou hast scarce maintenance

To keep thee in fresh shamois.[45]

_Mar._ Brother!

_Flam._ Hear me:--

And thus, when we have even poured ourselves

Into great fights, for their ambition

Or idle spleen, how shall we find reward?

But as we seldom find the misletoe

Sacred to physic, or the builder oak,

Without a mandrake by it; so in our quest of gain,

Alas, the poorest of their forced dislikes

At a limb proffers, but at heart it strikes!

This is lamented doctrine.

_Mar._ Come, come.

_Flam._ When age shall turn thee

White as a blooming hawthorn--

_Mar._ I'll interrupt you:--

For love of virtue bear an honest heart,

And stride o'er every politic respect,

Which, where they most advance, they most infect.

Were I your father, as I am your brother,

I should not be ambitious to leave you

A better patrimony.

_Flam._ I'll think on't.--

The lord ambassadors.

[_The_ Ambassadors _pass over the stage severally._

_Law._ O my sprightly Frenchman!--Do you know him? he's an admirable

tilter.

_Flam._ I saw him at last tilting: he showed like a pewter candlestick,

fashioned like a man in armour, holding a tilting-staff in his hand,

little bigger than a candle of twelve i' the pound.

_Law._ O, but he's an excellent horseman.

_Flam._ A lame one in his lofty tricks: he sleeps a-horseback, like a

poulter.[46]

_Law._ Lo you, my Spaniard!

_Flam._ He carries his face in's ruff, as I have seen a serving man

carry glasses in a cypress hatband, monstrous steady, for fear of

breaking: he looks like the claw of a blackbird, first salted, and then

broiled in a candle. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--_A Hall in_ MONTICELSO'S _Mansion._

_Enter_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, MONTICELSO, _the six lieger_

Ambassadors, BRACHIANO, VITTORIA COROMBONA, FLAMINEO, MARCELLO,

Lawyer, _and a_ Guard.

_Mont._ Forbear, my lord, here is no place assigned you:

This business by his holiness is left

To our examination. [_To_ BRACH.

_Brach._ May it thrive with you!

[_Lays a rich gown under him._

_Fran. de Med._ A chair there for his lordship!

_Brach._ Forbear your kindness: an unbidden guest

Should travel as Dutchwomen go to church,

Bear their stools with them.

_Mont._ At your pleasure, sir.--

Stand to the table, gentlewoman [_To_ VITTORIA].--Now, signior,

Fall to your plea.

_Law. Domine judex, converte oculos in hanc pestem, mulierum

corruptissimam._

_Vit. Cor._ What's he?

_Fran. de Med._ A lawyer that pleads against you.

_Vit. Cor._ Pray, my lord, let him speak his usual tongue;

I'll make no answer else.

_Fran. de Med._ Why, you understand Latin.

_Vit. Cor._ I do, sir; but amongst this auditory

Which come to hear my cause, the half or more

May be ignorant in't.

_Mont._ Go on, sir.

_Vit. Cor._ By your favour,

I will not have my accusation clouded

In a strange tongue; all this assembly

Shall hear what you can charge me with.

_Fran. de Med._ Signior,

You need not stand on't much; pray, change your language.

_Mont._ O, for God sake!--Gentlewoman, your credit

Shall be more famous by it.

_Law._ Well, then, have at you!

_Vit. Cor._ I am at the mark, sir: I'll give aim to you,

And tell you how near you shoot.

_Law._ Most literated judges, please your lordships

So to connive your judgments to the view

Of this debauched and diversivolent woman;

Who such a black concatenation

Of mischief hath effected, that to extirp

The memory of't, must be the consummation

Of her and her projections,--

_Vit. Cor._ What's all this?

_Law._ Hold your peace:

Exorbitant sins must have exulceration.

_Vit. Cor._ Surely, my lords, this lawyer here hath swallowed

Some pothecaries' bills, or proclamations;

And now the hard and undigestible words

Come up, like stones we use give hawks for physic;

Why, this is Welsh to Latin.

_Law._ My lords, the woman

Knows not her tropes nor figures, nor is perfect

In the academic derivation

Of grammatical elocution.

_Fran. de Med._ Sir, your pains

Shall be well spared, and your deep eloquence

Be worthily applauded amongst those

Which understand you.

_Law._ My good lord,--

_Fran. de Med._ Sir,

Put up your papers in your fustian bag,--

[FRANCISCO _speaks this as in scorn._

Cry mercy, sir, 'tis buckram--and accept

My notion of your learned verbosity.

_Law._ I most graduatically thank your lordship:

I shall have use for them elsewhere.

_Mont._ I shall be plainer with you, and paint out

Your follies in more natural red and white

Than that upon your cheek. [_To_ VITTORIA.

_Vit. Cor._ O you mistake:

You raise a blood as noble in this cheek

As ever was your mother's.

_Mont._ I must spare you, till proof cry "whore" to that.--

Observe this creature here, my honoured lords,

A woman of a most prodigious spirit,

In her effected.

_Vit. Cor._ Honourable my lord,

It doth not suit a reverend cardinal

To play the lawyer thus.

_Mont._ O, your trade instructs your language.--

You see, my lords, what goodly fruit she seems;

Yet, like those apples[47] travellers report

To grow where Sodom and Gomorrah stood,

I will but touch her, and you straight shall see

She'll fall to soot and ashes.

_Vit. Cor._ Your envenomed

Pothecary should do't.

_Mont._ I am resolved,[48]

Were there a second Paradise to lose,

This devil would betray it.

_Vit. Cor._ O poor charity!

Thou art seldom found in scarlet.

_Mont._ Who knows not how, when several night by night

Her gates were choked with coaches, and her rooms

Outbraved the stars with several kind of lights;

When she did counterfeit a prince's court

In music, banquets, and most riotous surfeits?

This whore, forsooth, was holy.

_Vit. Cor._ Ha! whore! what's that!

_Mont._ Shall I expound whore to you? sure, I shall;

I'll give their perfect character. They are first,

Sweetmeats which rot the eater; in man's nostrils

Poisoned perfumes: they are cozening alchemy;

Shipwrecks in calmest weather. What are whores!

Cold Russian winters, that appear so barren

As if that nature had forgot the spring:

They are the true material fire of hell:

Worse than those tributes i' the Low Countries paid,

Exactions upon meat, drink, garments, sleep,

Ay, even on man's perdition, his sin:

They are those brittle evidences of law

Which forfeit all a wretched man's estate

For leaving out one syllable. What are whores!

They are those flattering bells have all one tune,

At weddings and at funerals. Your rich whores

Are only treasuries by extortion filled,

And emptied by cursed riot. They are worse,

Worse than dead bodies which are begged at gallows,

And wrought upon by surgeons, to teach man

Wherein he is imperfect. What's a whore!

She's like the guilty counterfeited coin

Which, whosoe'er first stamps it, brings in trouble

All that receive it.

_Vit. Cor._ This character scapes me.

_Mont._ You, gentlewoman!

Take from all beasts and from all minerals

Their deadly poison--

_Vit. Cor._ Well, what then?

_Mont._ I'll tell thee;

I'll find in thee a pothecary's shop,

To sample them all.

_Fr. Am._ She hath lived ill.

_Eng. Am._ True; but the cardinal's too bitter.

_Mont._ You know what whore is. Next the devil adultery,

Enters the devil murder.

_Fran. de Med._ Your unhappy

Husband is dead.

_Vit. Cor._ O, he's a happy husband:

Now he owes nature nothing.

_Fran. de Med._ And by a vaulting-engine.

_Mont._ An active plot; he jumped into his grave.

_Fran. de Med._ What a prodigy was't

That from some two yards' height a slender man

Should break his neck!

_Mont._ I' the rushes![49]

_Fran. de Med._ And what's more,

Upon the instant lose all use of speech,

All vital motion, like a man had lain

Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance.

_Mont._ And look upon this creature was his wife.

She comes not like a widow; she comes armed

With scorn and impudence: is this a mourning-habit?

_Vit. Cor._ Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest,

I would have bespoke my mourning.

_Mont._ O, you are cunning.

_Vit. Cor._ You shame your wit and judgment,

To call it so. What! is my just defence

By him that is my judge called impudence?

Let me appeal, then, from this Christian court

To the uncivil Tartar.

_Mont._ See, my lords,

She scandals our proceedings.

_Vit. Cor._ Humbly thus,

Thus low, to the most worthy and respected

Lieger ambassadors, my modesty

And womanhood I tender; but withal,

So entangled in a cursèd accusation,

That my defence, of force, like Perseus,[50]

Must personate masculine virtue. To the point.

Find me but guilty, sever head from body,

We'll part good friends: I scorn to hold my life

At yours or any man's entreaty, sir.

_Eng. Am._ She hath a brave spirit.

_Mont._ Well, well, such counterfeit jewels

Make true ones oft suspected.

_Vit. Cor._ You are deceived:

For know, that all your strict-combinèd heads,

Which strike against this mine of diamonds,

Shall prove but glassen hammers,--they shall break.

These are but feignèd shadows of my evils:

Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils;

I am past such needless palsy. For your names

Of whore and murderess, they proceed from you,

As if a man should spit against the wind;

The filth returns in's face.

_Mont._ Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question:

Who lodged beneath your roof that fatal night

Your husband brake his neck?

_Brach._ That question

Enforceth me break silence: I was there.

_Mont._ Your business?

_Brach._ Why, I came to comfort her,

And take some course for settling her estate,

Because I heard her husband was in debt

To you, my lord.

_Mont._ He was.

_Brach._ And 'twas strangely feared

That you would cozen[51] her.

_Mont._ Who made you overseer?

_Brach._ Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow

From every generous and noble spirit

To orphans and to widows.

_Mont._ Your lust.

_Brach._ Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest,

I'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear?

The sword you frame of such an excellent temper

I'll sheathe in your own bowels.

There are a number of thy coat resemble

Your common post-boys.

_Mont._ Ha!

_Brach._ Your mercenary post-boys:

Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise

To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies.

_Serv._ My lord, your gown.

_Brach._ Thou liest, 'twas my stool:

Bestow't upon thy master, that will challenge

The rest o' the household-stuff; for Brachiano

Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool

Out of another's lodging: let him make

Vallance for his bed on't, or a demi-foot-cloth

For his most reverent moil.[52] Monticelso,

_Nemo me impune lacessit_. [_Exit._

_Mont._ Your champion's gone.

_Vit. Cor._ The wolf may prey the better.

_Fran. de Med._ My lord, there's great suspicion of the murder,

But no sound proof who did it. For my part,

I do not think she hath a soul so black

To act a deed so bloody: if she have,

As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines,

And with warm blood manure them, even so

One summer she will bear unsavoury fruit,

And ere next spring wither both branch and root.

The act of blood let pass; only descend

To matter of incontinence.

_Vit. Cor._ I discern poison

Under your gilded pills.

_Mont._ Now the duke's gone, I will produce a letter,

Wherein 'twas plotted he and you should meet

At an apothecary's summer-house,

Down by the river Tiber,--view't, my lords,--

Where, after wanton bathing and the heat

Of a lascivious banquet,--I pray read it,

I shame to speak the rest.

_Vit. Cor._ Grant I was tempted;

Temptation to lust proves not the act:

_Casta est quam nemo rogavit._[53]

You read his hot love to me, but you want

My frosty answer.

_Mont._ Frost i' the dog-days! strange!

_Vit. Cor._ Condemn you me for that the duke did love me!

So may you blame some fair and crystal river

For that some melancholic distracted man

Hath drowned himself in't.

_Mont._ Truly drowned, indeed.

_Vit. Cor._ Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find,

That beauty, and gay clothes, a merry heart,

And a good stomach to a feast, are all,

All the poor crimes that you can charge me with.

In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies;

The sport would be more noble.

_Mont._ Very good.

_Vit. Cor._ But take you your course: it seems you have beggared me first,

And now would fain undo me. I have houses,

Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes:[54]

Would those would make you charitable!

_Mont._ If the devil

Did ever take good shape, behold his picture.

_Vit. Cor._ You have one virtue left,--

You will not flatter me.

_Fran. de Med._ Who brought this letter?

_Vit. Cor._ I am not compelled to tell you.

_Mont._ My lord duke sent to you a thousand ducats

The twelfth of August.

_Vit. Cor._ 'Twas to keep your cousin

From prison: I paid use for't.

_Mont._ I rather think

'Twas interest for his lust.

_Vit. Cor._ Who says so

But yourself? if you be my accuser,

Pray, cease to be my judge: come from the bench;

Give in your evidence 'gainst me, and let these

Be moderators. My lord cardinal,

Were your intelligencing ears as loving

As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue,

I would not care though you proclaimed them all.

_Mont._ Go to, go to.

After your goodly and vain-glorious banquet,

I'll give you a choke-pear.

_Vit. Cor._ O' your own grafting?

_Mont._ You were born in Venice, honourably descended

From the Vittelli: 'twas my cousin's fate,--

Ill may I name the hour,--to marry you:

He bought you of your father.

_Vit. Cor._ Ha!

_Mont._ He spent there in six months

Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my acquaintance)

Received in dowry with you not one julio:[55]

'Twas a hard pennyworth, the ware being so light.

I yet but draw the curtain now to your picture:

You came from thence a most notorious strumpet,

And so you have continued.

_Vit. Cor._ My lord,--

_Mont._ Nay, hear me;

You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano--

Alas, I make but repetition

Of what is ordinary and Rialto talk,

And ballated, and would be played o' the stage,

But that vice many times finds such loud friends

That preachers are charmed silent.--

You gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello,

The court hath nothing now to charge you with

Only you must remain upon your sureties

For your appearance.

_Fran. de Med._ I stand for Marcello.

_Flam._ And my lord duke for me.

_Mont._ For you, Vittoria, your public fault,

Joined to the condition of the present time,

Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity;

Such a corrupted trial have you made

Both of your life and beauty, and been styled

No less an ominous fate than blazing stars

To princes: here's your sentence; you are confined

Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd--

_Flam._ [_Aside_]. Who, I?

_Mont._ The Moor.

_Flam._ [_Aside_]. O, I am a sound man again.

_Vit. Cor._ A house of convertites! what's that?

_Mont._ A house

Of penitent whores.

_Vit. Cor._ Do the noblemen in Rome

Erect it for their wives, that I am sent

To lodge there?

_Fran. de Med._ You must have patience.

_Vit. Cor._ I must first have vengeance.

I fain would know if you have your salvation

By patent, that you proceed thus.

_Mont._ Away with her!

Take her hence.

_Vit. Cor._ A rape! a rape!

_Mont._ How!

_Vit. Cor._ Yes, you have ravished justice;

Forced her to do your pleasure.

_Mont._ Fie, she's mad!

_Vit. Cor._ Die with these pills in your most cursèd maw

Should bring you health! or while you sit o' the bench

Let your own spittle choke you!--

_Mont._ She's turned Fury.

_Vit. Cor._ That the last day of judgment may so find you,

And leave you the same devil you were before!

Instruct me, some good horse-leech, to speak treason;

For since you cannot take my life for deeds,

Take it for words: O woman's poor revenge,

Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep;

No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear

To fawn on your injustice; bear me hence

Unto this house of--what's your mitigating title?

_Mont._ Of convertites.

_Vit. Cor._ It shall not be a house of convertites;

My mind shall make it honester to me

Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable

Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal.

Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite,

Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light.[56]

[_Exeunt_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, Lawyer, _and_

Guards.

_Re-enter_ BRACHIANO.

_Brach._ Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands

In a friend's grave together; a fit place,

Being the emblem of soft peace, to atone our hatred.

_Fran. de Med._ Sir, what's the matter?

_Brach._ I will not chase more blood from that loved cheek;

You have lost too much already: fare you well. [_Exit._

_Fran. de Med._ How strange these words sound! what's the

interpretation?

_Flam._ [_Aside._] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the

duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit

a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad

humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle

questions. Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in't: I will

talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman.

[_Exit._

_Enter_ GIOVANNI, Count LODOVICO, _and_ Attendant.

_Fran. de Med._ How now, my noble cousin! what, in black!

_Giov._ Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you

In virtue, and you must imitate me

In colours of your garments. My sweet mother

Is--

_Fran. de Med._ How! where?

_Giov._ Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I'll not tell you,

For I shall make you weep.

_Fran. de Med._ Is dead?

_Giov._ Do not blame me now,

I did not tell you so.

_Lod._ She's dead, my lord.

_Fran. de Med._ Dead!

_Mont._ Blessed lady, thou are now above thy woes!--

Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little?

[_Exeunt_ Ambassadors.

_Giov._ What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat,

Hear music, go a hunting, and be merry,

As we that live?

_Fran. de Med._ No, coz; they sleep.

_Giov._ Lord, Lord, that I were dead!

I have not slept these six nights.--When do they wake?

_Fran. de Med._ When God shall please.

_Giov._ Good God, let her sleep ever!

For I have known her wake an hundred nights,

When all the pillow where she laid her head

Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir;

I'll tell you how they have used her now she's dead:

They wrapped her in a cruel fold of lead,

And would not let me kiss her.

_Fran. de Med._ Thou didst love her.

_Giov._ I have often heard her say she gave me suck,

And it should seem by that she dearly loved me,

Since princes seldom do it.

_Fran. de Med._ O, all of my poor sister that remains!--

Take him away, for God's sake!

[_Exeunt_ GIOVANNI _and_ Attendant.

_Mont._ How now, my lord!

_Fran. de Med._ Believe me, I am nothing but her grave;

And I shall keep her blessèd memory

Longer than thousand epitaphs.

[_Exeunt_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ MONTICELSO.

_Re-enter_ FLAMINEO _as if distracted._

_Flam._ We endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel,

Till pain itself make us no pain to feel.

Who shall do me right now? is this the end of service? I'd rather

go weed garlic; travel through France, and be mine own ostler; wear

sheepskin linings, or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into the

list of the forty thousand pedlers in Poland.

_Re-enter_ Ambassadors.

Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice, built upon the

pox as well as on piles, ere I had served Brachiano!

_Savoy Am._ You must have comfort.

_Flam._ Your comfortable words are like honey; they relish well in

your mouth that's whole, but in mine that's wounded they go down as

if the sting of the bee were in them. O, they have wrought their

purpose cunningly, as if they would not seem to do it of malice! In

this a politician imitates the devil, as the devil imitates a cannon;

wheresoever he comes to do mischief, he comes with his backside towards

you.

_Fr. Am._ The proofs are evident.

_Flam._ Proof! 'twas corruption. O gold, what a god art thou! and O

man, what a devil art thou to be tempted by that cursed mineral! Your

diversivolent lawyer, mark him: knaves turn informers, as maggots turn

to flies; you may catch gudgeons with either. A cardinal! I would he

would hear me: there's nothing so holy but money will corrupt and

putrify it, like victual under the line. You are happy in England, my

lord: here they sell justice with those weights they press men to death

with. O horrible salary!

_Eng. Am._ Fie, fie, Flamineo! [_Exeunt_ Ambassadors.

_Flam._ Bells ne'er ring well, till they are at their full pitch; and I

hope yon cardinal shall never have the grace to pray well till he come

to the scaffold. If they were racked now to know the confederacy,--but

your noblemen are privileged from the rack; and well may, for a little

thing would pull some of them a-pieces afore they came to their

arraignment. Religion, O, how it is commedled[57] with policy! The

first bloodshed in the world happened about religion. Would I were a

Jew!

_Mar._ O, there are too many.

_Flam._ You are deceived: there are not Jews enough, priests enough,

nor gentlemen enough.

_Mar._ How?

_Flam._ I'll prove it; for if there were Jews enough, so many

Christians would not turn usurers; if priests enough, one should not

have six benefices; and if gentlemen enough, so many early mushrooms,

whose best growth sprang from a dunghill, should not aspire to

gentility. Farewell: let others live by begging; be thou one of them

practise the art of Wolner[58] in England, to swallow all's given thee;

and yet let one purgation make thee as hungry again as fellows that

work in a saw-pit. I'll go hear the screech-owl. [_Exit._

_Lod._ [_Aside_]. This was Brachiano's pander and 'tis strange

That, in such open and apparent guilt

Of his adulterous sister, he dare utter

So scandalous a passion. I must wind him.

_Re-enter_ FLAMINEO.

_Flam._ [_Aside_]. How dares this banished count return to Rome,

His pardon not yet purchased! I have heard

The deceased duchess gave him pension,

And that he came along from Padua

I' the train of the young prince. There's somewhat in't:

Physicians, that cure poisons, still do work

With counter-poisons.

_Mar._ Mark this strange encounter.

_Flam._ The god of melancholy turn thy gall to poison,

And let the stigmatic[59] wrinkles in thy face,

Like to the boisterous waves in a rough tide,

One still overtake another.

_Lod._ I do thank thee,

And I do wish ingeniously[60] for thy sake

The dog-days all year long.

_Flam._ How croaks the raven?

Is our good duchess dead?

_Lod._ Dead.

_Flam._ O fate!

Misfortune comes, like the coroner's business,

Huddle upon huddle.

_Lod._ Shalt thou and I join house-keeping?

_Flam._ Yes, content:

Let's be unsociably sociable.

_Lod._ Sit some three days together, and discourse.

_Flam._ Only with making faces: lie in our clothes.

_Lod._ With faggots for our pillows.

_Flam._ And be lousy.

_Lod._ In taffata linings; that's genteel melancholy:

Sleep all day.

_Flam._ Yes; and, like your melancholic hare,

Feed after midnight.--

We are observed: see how yon couple grieve!

_Lod._ What a strange creature is a laughing fool!

As if man were created to no use

But only to show his teeth.

_Flam._ I'll tell thee what,--

It would do well, instead of looking-glasses,

To set one's face each morning by a saucer

Of a witch's congealèd blood.

_Lod._ Precious gue![61]

We'll never part.

_Flam._ Never, till the beggary of courtiers,

The discontent of churchmen, want of soldiers,

And all the creatures that hang manacled,

Worse than strappadoed, on the lowest felly

Of Fortune's wheel, be taught, in our two lives,

To scorn that world which life of means deprives.

_Enter_ ANTONELLI _and_ GASPARO.

_Anto._ My lord, I bring good news. The Pope, on's death-bed,

At the earnest suit of the Great Duke of Florence,

Hath signed your pardon, and restored unto you--

_Lod._ I thank you for your news.--Look up again,

Flamineo; see my pardon.

_Flam._ Why do you laugh?

There was no such condition in our covenant.

_Lod._ Why!

_Flam._ You shall not seem a happier man than I:

You know our vow, sir; if you will be merry,

Do it i' the like posture as if some great man

Sate while his enemy were executed;

Though it be very lechery unto thee,

Do't with a crabbèd politician's face.

_Lod._ Your sister is a damnable whore.

_Flam._ Ha!

_Lod._ Look you, I spake that laughing.

_Flam._ Dost ever think to speak again?

_Lod._ Do you hear?

Wilt sell me forty ounces of her blood

To water a mandrake?

_Flam._ Poor lord, you did vow

To live a lousy creature.

_Lod._ Yes.

_Flam._ Like one

That had for ever forfeited the daylight

By being in debt.

_Lod._ Ha, ha!

_Flam._ I do not greatly wonder you do break;

Your lordship learned't long since. But I'll tell you,--

_Lod._ What?

_Flam._ And't shall stick by you,--

_Lod._ I long for it.

_Flam._ This laughter scurvily becomes your face:

If you will not be melancholy, be angry. [_Strikes him._

See, now I laugh too.

_Mar._ You are to blame: I'll force you hence.

_Lod._ Unhand me.

[_Exeunt_ MARCELLO _and_ FLAMINEO.

That e'er I should be forced to right myself

Upon a pander!

_Anto._ My lord,--

_Lod._ H'ad been as good met with his fist a thunderbolt.

_Gas._ How this shows!

_Lod._ Ud's death,[62] how did my sword miss him?

These rogues that are most weary of their lives

Still scape the greatest dangers.

A pox upon him! all his reputation,

Nay, all the goodness of his family,

Is not worth half this earthquake:

I learned it of no fencer to shake thus:

Come, I'll forget him, and go drink some wine.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_An Apartment in the Palace of_ FRANCISCO.

_Enter_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ MONTICELSO.

_Mont._ Come, come, my lord, untie your folded thoughts,

And let them dangle loose as a bride's hair.[63]

Your sister's poisoned.

_Fran. de Med._ Far be it from my thoughts

To seek revenge.

_Mont._ What, are you turned all marble?

_Fran. de Med._ Shall I defy him, and impose a war

Most burdensome on my poor subjects' necks,

Which at my will I have not power to end?

You know, for all the murders, rapes, and thefts,

Committed in the horrid lust of war,

He that unjustly caused it first proceed

Shall find it in his grave and in his seed.

_Mont._ That's not the course I'd wish you; pray, observe me.

We see that undermining more prevails

Than doth the cannon. Bear your wrongs concealed,

And, patient as the tortoise, let this camel

Stalk, o'er your back unbruised: sleep with the lion,

And let this brood of secure foolish mice

Play with your nostrils, till the time be ripe

For the bloody audit and the fatal gripe:

Aim like a cunning fowler, close one eye,

That you the better may your game espy.

_Fran. de Med._ Free me, my innocence, from treacherous acts!

I know there's thunder yonder; and I'll stand

Like a safe valley, which low bends the knee

To some aspiring mountain; since I know

Treason, like spiders weaving nets for flies,

By her foul work is found, and in it dies.

To pass away these thoughts, my honoured lord,

It is reported you possess a book,

Wherein you have quoted,[64] by intelligence,

The names of all notorious offenders

Lurking about the city.

_Mont._ Sir, I do;

And some there are which call it my black book:

Well may the title hold; for though it teach not

The art of conjuring, yet in it lurk

The names of many devils.

_Fran. de Med._ Pray, let's see it.

_Mont._ I'll fetch it to your lordship. [_Exit._

_Fran. de Med._ Monticelso,

I will not trust thee; but in all my plots

I'll rest as jealous as a town besieged.

Thou canst not reach what I intend to act:

Your flax soon kindles, soon is out again;

But gold slow heats, and long will hot remain.

_Re-enter_ MONTICELSO, _presents_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _with a book._

_Mont._ 'Tis here, my lord.

_Fran. de Med._ First, your intelligencers, pray, let's see.

_Mont._ Their number rises strangely; and some of them

You'd take for honest men. Next are panders,--

These are your pirates; and these following leaves

For base rogues that undo young gentlemen

By taking up commodities;[65] for politic bankrupts;

For fellows that are bawds to their own wives,

Only to put off horses, and slight jewels,

Clocks, defaced plate, and such commodities,

At birth of their first children.

_Fran. de Med._ Are there such?

_Mont._ These are for impudent bawds

That go in men's apparel; for usurers

That share with scriveners for their good reportage;

For lawyers that will antedate their writs:

And some divines you might find folded there,

But that I slip them o'er for conscience' sake.

Here is a general catalogue of knaves:

A man might study all the prisons o'er,

Yet never attain this knowledge.

_Fran. de Med._ Murderers!

Fold down the leaf, I pray.

Good my lord, let me borrow this strange doctrine.

_Mont._ Pray, use't, my lord.

_Fran. de Med._ I do assure your lordship,

You are a worthy member of the state,

And have done infinite good in your discovery

Of these offenders.

_Mont._ Somewhat, sir.

_Fran. de Med._ O God!

Better than tribute of wolves paid in England:[66]

'Twill hang their skins o' the hedge.

_Mont._ I must make bold

To leave your lordship.

_Fran. de Med._ Dearly, sir, I thank you:

If any ask for me at court, report

You have left me in the company of knaves.

[_Exit_ MONTICELSO.

I gather now by this, some cunning fellow

That's my lord's officer, one that lately skipped

From a clerk's desk up to a justice' chair,

Hath made this knavish summons, and intends,

As the Irish rebels wont were to sell heads,

So to make prize of these. And thus it happens,

Your poor rogues pay for't which have not the means

To present bribe in fist: the rest o' the band

Are razed out of the knaves' record; or else

My lord he winks at them with easy will;

His man grows rich, the knaves are the knaves still.

But to the use I'll make of it; it shall serve

To point me out a list of murderers,

Agents for any villany. Did I want

Ten leash of courtezans, it would furnish me;

Nay, laundress three armies. That in so little paper

Should lie the undoing of so many men!

'Tis not so big as twenty declarations.

See the corrupted use some make of books:

Divinity, wrested by some factious blood,

Draws swords, swells battles, and o'erthrows all good.

To fashion my revenge more seriously,

Let me remember my dead sister's face:

Call for her picture? no, I'll close mine eyes,

And in a melancholic thought I'll frame

_Enter_ ISABELLA'S ghost.

Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha't:--how 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._