THE JEW OF MALTA.
Enter Machiavel.
Machiavel. Albeit the world thinks Machiavel is dead, Yet was his soul but flown beyond the Alps; And now the Guise [7] is dead, is come from France, To view this land, and frolic with his friends. To some perhaps my name is odious, But such as love me guard me from their tongues; And let them know that I am Machiavel, And weigh not men, and therefore not men's words. Admired I am of those that hate me most. Though some speak openly against my books,10 Yet they will read me, and thereby attain To Peter's chair: and when they cast me off, Are poisoned by my climbing followers. I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance. Birds of the air will tell of murders past! I am ashamed to hear such fooleries. Many will talk of title to a crown: What right had Cæsar to the empery? [8] Might first made kings, and laws were then most sure20 When like the Draco's [9] they were writ in blood. Hence comes it that a strong-built citadel Commands much more than letters can import; Which maxim had [but [10]] Phalaris observed, He had never bellowed, in a brazen bull, Of great one's envy. Of the poor petty wights Let me be envied and not pitièd! But whither am I bound? I come not, I, To read a lecture hear in Britainy, [11] But to present the tragedy of a Jew,30 Who smiles to see how full his bags are crammed, Which money was not got without my means. I crave but this—grace him as he deserves, And let him not be entertained the worse Because he favours me. [Exit.