Cam. Now he begins to tickle her.
Flam. An excellent scholar [one that hath a head fill'd with calves' brains without any sage in them,] come crouching in the hams to you for a night's lodging? [that hath an itch in 's hams, which like the fire at the glass-house hath not gone out this seven years] Is he not a courtly gentleman? [when he wears white satin, one would take him by his black muzzle to be no other creature than a maggot] You are a goodly foil, I confess, well set out [but cover'd with a false stone— yon counterfeit diamond].
Cam. He will make her know what is in me.
Flam. Come, my lord attends you; thou shalt go to bed to my lord.
Cam. Now he comes to 't.
Flam. [With a relish as curious as a vintner going to taste new wine.]
[To Camillo.] I am opening your case hard.
Cam. A virtuous brother, o' my credit!
Flam. He will give thee a ring with a philosopher's stone in it.
Cam. Indeed, I am studying alchemy.
Flam. Thou shalt lie in a bed stuffed with turtle's feathers; swoon in perfumed linen, like the fellow was smothered in roses. So perfect shall be thy happiness, that as men at sea think land, and trees, and ships, go that way they go; so both heaven and earth shall seem to go your voyage. Shalt meet him; 'tis fix'd, with nails of diamonds to inevitable necessity.
Vit. How shalt rid him hence?
Flam. [I will put brize in 's tail, set him gadding presently.] I have almost wrought her to it; I find her coming: but, might I advise you now, for this night I would not lie with her, I would cross her humour to make her more humble.
Cam. Shall I, shall I?
Flam. It will show in you a supremacy of judgment.
Cam. True, and a mind differing from the tumultuary opinion; for, quæ
negata, grata.
Flam. Right: you are the adamant shall draw her to you, though you keep
distance off.
Cam. A philosophical reason.
Flam. Walk by her a' th' nobleman's fashion, and tell her you will lie with her at the end of the progress.
Cam. Vittoria, I cannot be induc'd, or as a man would say, incited——
Vit. To do what, sir?
Cam. To lie with you to-night. Your silkworm used to fast every third day, and the next following spins the better. To-morrow at night, I am for you.
Vit. You 'll spin a fair thread, trust to 't.
Flam. But do you hear, I shall have you steal to her chamber about midnight.
Cam. Do you think so? why look you, brother, because you shall not say I 'll gull you, take the key, lock me into the chamber, and say you shall be sure of me.
Flam. In troth I will; I 'll be your jailor once.
Cam. A pox on 't, as I am a Christian! tell me to-morrow how scurvily she takes my unkind parting.
Flam. I will.
Cam. Didst thou not mark the jest of the silkworm?
Good-night; in faith, I will use this trick often.
Flam. Do, do, do. [Exit Camillo. So, now you are safe. Ha, ha, ha, thou entanglest thyself in thine own work like a silkworm. [Enter Brachiano.] Come, sister, darkness hides your blush. Women are like cursed dogs: civility keeps them tied all daytime, but they are let loose at midnight; then they do most good, or most mischief. My lord, my lord!
Zanche brings out a carpet, spreads it, and lays on it two fair cushions.
Enter Cornelia listening, but unperceived.
Brach. Give credit: I could wish time would stand still,
And never end this interview, this hour;
But all delight doth itself soon'st devour.
Let me into your bosom, happy lady,
Pour out, instead of eloquence, my vows.
Loose me not, madam, for if you forgo me,
I am lost eternally.
Vit. Sir, in the way of pity,
I wish you heart-whole.
Brach. You are a sweet physician.
Vit. Sure, sir, a loathed cruelty in 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.
Corn. [Aside.] My fears are fall'n upon me: oh, my heart!
My son the pander! now I find our house
Sinking to ruin. Earthquakes leave behind,
Where they have tyranniz'd, iron, or lead, or stone;
But woe to ruin, violent lust leaves none.
Brach. What value is this jewel?
Vit. 'Tis the ornament of a weak fortune.
Brach. In sooth, I 'll have it; nay, I will but 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. Here, sir?
Brach. Nay, lower, you shall wear my jewel lower.
Flam. That 's better: she must wear his jewel lower.
Vit. To pass away the time, I 'll tell your grace
A dream I had last night.
Brach. Most wishedly.
Vit. A foolish idle dream:
Methought I walked about the mid of night
Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew-tree
Spread her large root in ground: under that yew,
As I sat sadly leaning on a grave,
Chequer'd with cross-sticks, there came stealing in
Your duchess and my husband; one of them
A pickaxe bore, th' other a rusty spade,
And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me
About this yew.
Brach. That tree?
Vit. This harmless yew;
They told me my intent was to root up
That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it
A wither'd blackthorn; and for that they vow'd
To bury me alive. My husband straight
With pickaxe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess
With shovel, like a fury, voided out
The earth and scatter'd 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. 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 lodg'd 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.
Corn. [Advancing.] Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our fall!
Flam. What fury raised thee up? away, away. [Exit Zanche.
Corn. What make you here, my lord, this dead of night?
Never dropp'd mildew on a flower here till now.
Flam. I pray, will you go to bed then,
Lest you be blasted?
Corn. O that this fair garden
Had with all poison'd herbs of Thessaly
At first been planted; made a nursery
For witchcraft, rather than a burial plot
For both your honours!
Vit. Dearest mother, hear me.
Corn. O, thou dost make my brow bend to the earth.
Sooner than nature! See the curse of children!
In life they keep us frequently in tears;
And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.
Brach. Come, come, I will not hear you.
Vit. Dear my lord.
Corn. Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke?
Thou little dream'st this night she 's come to Rome.
Flam. How! come to Rome!
Vit. The duchess!
Brach. She had been better——
Corn. The lives of princes should like dials move,
Whose regular example is so strong,
They make the times by them go right, or wrong.
Flam. So, have you done?
Corn. Unfortunate Camillo!
Vit. I do protest, if any chaste denial,
If anything but blood could have allay'd
His long suit to me——
Corn. I will join with thee,
To the most woeful end e'er mother kneel'd:
If thou dishonour thus thy husband's bed,
Be thy life short as are the funeral tears
In great men's——
Brach. Fie, fie, the woman's mad.
Corn. Be thy act Judas-like; betray in kissing:
May'st thou be envied during his short breath,
And pitied like a wretch after his death!
Vit. O me accurs'd! [Exit.
Flam. Are you out of your wits? my lord,
I 'll fetch her back again.
Brach. No, I 'll to bed:
Send Doctor Julio to me presently.
Uncharitable woman! thy rash tongue
Hath rais'd a fearful and prodigious storm:
Be thou the cause of all ensuing harm. [Exit.
Flam. Now, you that stand so much upon your honour,
Is this a fitting time a' night, think you,
To send a duke home without e'er a man?
I would fain know where lies the mass of wealth
Which you have hoarded for my maintenance,
That I may bear my beard out of the level
Of my lord's stirrup.
Corn. 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 prov'd 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 return'd
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.
Corn. O that I ne'er had borne thee!
Flam. So would I;
I would the common'st courtesan 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;
It may be he will justify the act.
Lycurgus wonder'd much, men would provide
Good stallions for their mares, and yet would suffer
Their fair wives to be barren.
Corn. Misery of miseries! [Exit.
Flam. The duchess come to court! I like not that.
We are engag'd to mischief, and must on;
As rivers to find out the ocean
Flow with crook bendings beneath forced banks,
Or as we see, to aspire some mountain's top,
The way ascends not straight, but imitates
The subtle foldings of a winter's snake,
So who knows policy and her true aspect,
Shall find her ways winding and indirect.
ACT II
SCENE I
Enter Francisco de Medicis, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor
Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived?
Isab. Not yet, sir.
Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind;
If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's,
I would set fire on 't were 't but to destroy
The polecats that haunt to it—My sweet cousin!
Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse,
And armour.
Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin.
Marcello, see it fitted.
Marc. My lord, the duke is here.
Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen.
Isab. I do beseech you,
Entreat him mildly, let not your rough tongue
Set us at louder variance; all my wrongs
Are freely pardon'd; and I do not doubt,
As men to try the precious unicorn's horn
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. I wish it may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineo
enter.] Void the chamber.
You are welcome; will you sit?—I pray, my lord,
Be you my orator, my heart 's too full;
I 'll second you anon.
Mont. Ere I begin,
Let me entreat your grace forgo all passion,
Which may be raised by my free discourse.
Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed.
Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends,
That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world
With a free scepter in your able hand,
And having to th' 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
Plac'd 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 scepter; but alas!
When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame,
All princely titles perish with their name.
Brach. You have said, my lord——
Mont. Enough to give you 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. 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. You shift your shirt there,
When you retire from tennis?
Brach. Happily.
Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune,
Yet she wears cloth of tissue.
Brach. What of this?
Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal,
As part of her confession at next shrift,
And know from whence it sails?
Fran. She is your strumpet——
Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath,
And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine,
All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers,
Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,
Durst not supplant her.
Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder.
Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given
Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast
In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee
But one.
Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then.
Fran. True:
Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution,
Shall ne'er do so by thee.
Brach. Spit thy poison.
Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip
At her own girdle. Look to 't, for our anger
Is making thunderbolts.
Brach. Thunder! in faith,
They are but crackers.
Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon.
Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds,
And gunpowder in thy nostrils.
Fran. Better that,
Than change perfumes for plasters.
Brach. Pity on thee!
'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd,
Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee,
Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.
Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further
Without a milder limit.
Fran. Willingly.
Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait
A lion thus?
Mont. My lord!
Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir.
Fran. We send unto the duke for conference
'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord 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. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle.
But to express the sonnet by natural reason,
[Enter Giovanni.
When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.
Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion
Shall end the difference between you both;
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. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin?
Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord,
Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me,
Might not a child of good discretion
Be leader to an army?
Fran. 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 a-horseback,
Like a Danske drummer,—Oh, '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. What! what!
Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow,
But bid them follow me.
Brach. Forward lapwing!
He flies with the shell on 's head.
Fran. Pretty cousin!
Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war,
All prisoners that I take, I will set free,
Without their ransom.
Fran. Ha! without their ransom!
How then will you reward your soldiers,
That took those prisoners for you?
Giov. Thus, my lord:
I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widows
That falls that year.
Fran. Why then, the next year following,
You 'll have no men to go with you to war.
Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war,
And then the men will follow.
Mont. Witty prince!
Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man,
Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast.
Come, you and I are friends.
Brach. Most wishedly:
Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set,
Knit the more strongly.
Fran. Call Camillo hither.—
You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count Lodowick
Is turn'd a pirate?
Brach. Yes.
Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess.
We now will leave you, and expect from you
Nothing but kind entreaty.
Brach. You have charm'd me.
[Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni.
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 charg'd with any grievous sin?
Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think
The oftener that we cast our reckonings up,
Our sleep will be the sounder.
Brach. Take your chamber.
Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry!
Doth not my absence from you, now two months,
Merit one kiss?
Brach. I do not use to kiss:
If that will dispossess your jealousy,
I 'll swear it to you.
Isab. O, my loved lord,
I do not come to chide: my jealousy!
I am to learn what that Italian means.
You are as welcome to these longing arms,
As I to you a virgin.
Brach. Oh, your breath!
Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic,
The plague is in them!
Isab. You have oft, for these two lips,
Neglected cassia, or the natural sweets
Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd.
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 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. 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 'pon record! I scorn him
Like a shav'd Polack: all his reverend wit
Lies in his wardrobe; he 's a discreet fellow,
When he 's made up in his robes of state.
Your brother, the great duke, because h' 'as galleys,
And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat,
(Now all the hellish furies take his soul!)
First made this match: accursed be the priest
That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue!
Isab. Oh, too, too far you have curs'd!
Brach. Your hand I 'll kiss;
This is the latest ceremony of my love.
Henceforth I 'll never lie with thee; by this,
This wedding-ring, I 'll ne'er more lie with thee!
And this divorce shall be as truly kept,
As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well:
Our sleeps are sever'd.
Isab. Forbid it the sweet union
Of all things blessed! 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 fixed.
Isab. O, my winding-sheet!
Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord,
Let me hear once more, what I would not hear:
Never?
Brach. Never.
Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy,
As I upon a woeful widow'd 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 cursed vow;
I have some cause to do it, 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 supposed jealousy,
And think with what a piteous and rent heart
I shall perform this sad ensuing part.
Enter Francisco, Flamineo, Monticelso, and Camillo
Brach. Well, take your course.—My honourable brother!
Fran. Sister!—This is not well, my lord.—Why, sister!—She merits not
this welcome.
Brach. Welcome, say!
She hath given a sharp welcome.
Fran. 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. 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. Do you hear?
Look upon other women, with what patience
They suffer these slight wrongs, and 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. What! turn'd fury!
Isab. To dig that 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. How, ne'er more lie with him!
Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly kept
As if in thronged 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 alta mente repostum.
Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad,
And jealous woman.
Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking.
Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn,
You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee,
For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow
And take your chamber.
Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua;
I will not stay a minute.
Mont. Oh, good madam!
Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour;
Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach,
And then she 'll turn in post.
Fran. To see her come
To my lord 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.
Marc. Camillo's come, my lord.
Enter Camillo
Fran. Where 's the commission?
Marc. 'Tis here.
Fran. Give me the signet.
Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning.
Enter Doctor
Brach. About the murder?
Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy.
Here 's another property too.
Brach. Oh, the doctor!
Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.
Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colorable execution.
Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin.
Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire!
Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord.
Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!
Brach. No more.—I must employ thee, honest doctor:
You must to Padua, and by the way,
Use some of your skill for us.
Doctor. Sir, I shall.
Brach. But for Camillo?
Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain,
Men shall suppose him by 's own engine slain.
But for your duchess' death——
Doctor. I 'll make her sure.
Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.
Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, they
rise as gallows in the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders.
[Exeunt. Monticelso, Camillo, and Francisco come forward.
Mont. Here is an emblem, nephew, pray peruse it:
'Twas thrown in at your window.
Cam. At my window!
Here is a stag, my lord, hath shed his horns,
And, for the loss of them, the poor beast weeps:
The word, Inopem me copia fecit.
Mont. That is,
Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns.
Cam. What should this mean?
Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given out
You are a cuckold.
Cam. Is it given out so?
I had rather such reports as that, my lord,
Should keep within doors.
Fran. Have you any children?
Cam. None, my lord.
Fran. You are the happier:
I 'll tell you a tale.
Cam. Pray, my lord.
Fran. An old tale.
Upon a time Phbus, the god of light,
Or him we call the sun, would need to be married:
The gods gave their consent, and 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 butter-women, 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 banns. A great fat cook
Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove
That Phbus 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 fireworks like their father? So say I;
Only I apply it to your wife;
Her issue, should not providence prevent it,
Would make both nature, time, and man repent it.
Mont. Look you, cousin,
Go, change the air for shame; see if your absence
Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello
Is chosen with you joint commissioner,
For the relieving our Italian coast
From pirates.
Marc. I am much honour'd 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' th' nights;
Then 's the most danger.
Fran. Farewell, good Marcello:
All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish
Bring you a-shipboard.
Cam. Were I not best, now I am turn'd soldier,
Ere that I leave my wife, sell all she hath,
And then take leave of her?
Mont. I expect good from you,
Your parting is so merry.
Cam. Merry, my lord! a' th' captain's humour right,
I am resolved to be drunk this night. [Exeunt.
Fran. So, 'twas well fitted; now shall we discern
How his wish'd absence will give violent way
To Duke Brachiano's lust.
Mont. Why, that was it;
To what scorn'd purpose else should we make choice
Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides,
Count Lodowick, which was rumour'd for a pirate,
Is now in Padua.
Fran. Is 't true?
Mont. Most certain.
I have letters from him, which are suppliant
To work his quick repeal from banishment:
He means to address himself for pension
Unto our sister duchess.
Fran. Oh, '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 wrong'd, durst not avenge himself.
Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.
Mont. Curse of greatness!
Sure he 'll not leave her?
Fran. There 's small pity in 't:
Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather,
Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.