Pier. Hence, doting stoic! by my hope of bliss,
I’ll make thee wretched.
Pan. Defiance to thy power, thou rifted jawn![245] 140
Now, by the lovèd heaven, sooner thou shalt
Rinse thy foul ribs from the black filth of sin
That soots thy heart than make me wretched. Pish!
Thou canst not coop me up. Hadst thou a jail
With treble walls, like antique Babylon,
Pandulpho can get out. I tell thee, duke,
I have old Fortunatus’ wishing-cap,
And can be where I list even in a trice.
I’ll skip from earth into the arms of heaven:
And from triumphal arch of blessedness, 150
Spit on thy frothy breast. Thou canst not slave
Or banish me; I will be free at home,
Maugre the beard of greatness. The port-holes
Of sheathèd spirit are ne’er corbèd[246] up,
But still stand open ready to discharge
Their precious shot into the shrouds of heaven.
Pier. O torture! slave, I banish thee the town,
Thy native seat of birth.
Pan. How proud thou speak’st! I tell thee, duke, the blasts 159
Of the swoll’n-cheek’d winds, nor all the breath of kings
Can puff me out my native seat of birth.
The earth’s my body’s, and the heaven’s my soul’s
Most native place of birth, which they will keep
Despite the menace of mortality.
Why, duke,
That’s not my native place,[247] where I was rock’d.
A wise man’s home is wheresoe’er he is wise;
Now that, from man, not from the place, doth rise.
Pier. Would I were deaf! O plague! Hence, dotard wretch!
Tread not in court: all that thou hast, I seize. 170
[Aside.] His quiet’s firmer than I can disease.
Pan. Go, boast unto thy flatt’ring sycophants
Pandulpho’s slave Piero hath o’erthrown:
Loose fortune’s rags are lost, my own’s my own.
[Piero going out, looks back.
’Tis true, Piero, thy vex’d heart shall see,
Thou hast but tripp’d my slave, not conquered me.