_Enter_ MARCELLO _and_ CORNELIA.
_Cor._ I hear a whispering all about the court
You are to fight: who is your opposite?
What is the quarrel?
_Mar._ 'Tis an idle rumour.
_Cor._ Will you dissemble? sure, you do not well
To fright me thus: you never look thus pale,
But when you are most angry. I do charge you
Upon my blessing,--nay, I'll call the duke,
And he shall school you.
_Mar._ Publish not a fear
Which would convert to laughter: 'tis not so.
Was not this crucifix my father's?
_Cor._ Yes.
_Mar._ I have heard you say, giving my brother suck,
He took the crucifix between his hands,
And broke a limb off.
_Cor._ Yes; but 'tis mended.
_Enter_ FLAMINEO.
_Flam._ I have brought your weapon back.
[_Runs_ MARCELLO _through._
_Cor._ Ha! O my horror!
_Mar._ You have brought it home, indeed.
_Cor._ Help! O, he's murdered!
_Flam._ Do you turn your gall up? I'll to sanctuary,
And send a surgeon to you. [_Exit._
_Enter_ CARLO, HORTENSIO, _and_ PEDRO.
_Hort._ How! o' the ground!
_Mar._ O mother, now remember what I told
Of breaking of the crucifix! Farewell.
There are some sins which Heaven doth duly punish
In a whole family. This it is to rise
By all dishonest means! Let all men know,
That tree shall long time keep a steady foot
Whose branches spread no wider than the root.
[_Dies._
_Cor._ O my perpetual sorrow!
_Hort._ Virtuous Marcello!
He's dead.--Pray, leave him, lady: come, you shall.
_Cor._ Alas, he is not dead; he's in a trance. Why, here's nobody shall
get any thing by his death. Let me call him again, for God's sake!
_Car._ I would you were deceived.
_Cor._ O, you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! How many have gone
away thus, for lack of tendance! Rear up's head, rear up's head: his
bleeding inward will kill him.
_Hort._ You see he is departed.
_Cor._ Let me come to him; give me him as he is: if he be turned to
earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both
into one coffin. Fetch a looking glass; see if his breath will not
stain it: or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his
lips. Will you lose him for a little pains-taking?
_Hort._ Your kindest office is to pray for him.
_Cor._ Alas, I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i'
the ground, and pray for me, if you'll let me come to him.
_Enter_ BRACHIANO _all armed save the beaver, with_ FLAMINEO,
FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, LODOVICO, _and_ Page.
_Brach._ Was this your handiwork?
_Flam._ It was my misfortune.
_Cor._ He lies, he lies; he did not kill him: these have killed him
that would not let him be better looked to.
_Brach._ Have comfort, my grieved mother.
_Cor._ O you screech-owl!
_Hort._ Forbear, good madam.
_Cor._ Let me go, let me go. [_She runs to_ FLAMINEO _with her knife
drawn, and, coming to him, lets it fall._
The God of Heaven forgive thee! Dost not wonder
I pray for thee? I'll tell thee what's the reason:
I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes;
I'd not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well:
Half of thyself lies there; and mayst thou live
To fill an hour-glass with his mouldered ashes,
To tell how thou shouldst spend the time to come
In blest repentance!
_Brach._ Mother, pray tell me
How came he by his death? what was the quarrel?
_Cor._ Indeed, my younger boy presumed too much
Upon his manhood, gave him bitter words,
Drew his sword first; and so, I know not how,
For I was out of my wits, he fell with's head
Just in my bosom.
_Page._ This is not true, madam.
_Cor._ I pray thee, peace.
One arrow's grazed already: it were vain
To lose this for that will ne'er be found again.
_Brach._ Go, bear, the body to Cornelia's lodging:
And we command that none acquaint our duchess
With this sad accident. For you, Flamineo,
Hark you, I will not grant your pardon.
_Flam._ No?
_Brach._ Only a lease of your life; and that shall last
But for one day: thou shalt be forced each evening
To renew it, or be hanged.
_Flam._ At your pleasure.
[LODOVICO _sprinkles_ BRACHIANO'S _beaver with a poison._
Your will is law now, I'll not meddle with it.
_Brach._ You once did brave me in your sister's lodging;
I'll now keep you in awe for't.--Where's our beaver?
_Fran de Med._ [_Aside_]. He calls for his destruction. Noble youth,
I pity thy sad fate! Now to the barriers.
This shall his passage to the black lake further;
The last good deed he did, he pardoned murther.
[_Exeunt._