Enter Castilio and Forobosco, Alberto and Balurdo, with poleaxes; Piero, talking with Strotzo, seemeth to send him out: exit Strotzo. Re-enter Strotzo with Maria, Nutriche, and Lucio. Piero passeth through his guard, and talks with Maria with seeming amorousness; she seemeth to reject his suit, flies to the tomb, kneels, and kisseth it. Piero bribes Nutriche and Lucio; they go to her, seeming to solicit his suit. She riseth, offers to go out; Piero stayeth her, tears open his breast, embraceth and kisseth her; and so they go all out in state.
After the dumb show enter two Pages, the one with tapers, the other holding a chafing-dish with a perfume in it; Antonio, in his night-gown and a night-cap, unbraced, following after.
Ant. The black jades of swart night trot foggy rings[263]
’Bout heaven’s brow: [clock strikes twelve] ’tis now stark dead night.
Is this Saint Mark’s Church?
1st Pa. It is, my lord.
Ant. Where stands my father’s hearse?
2d Pa. Those streamers bear his arms. Ay, that is it.
Ant. Set tapers to the tomb, and lamp the church:
Give me the fire.—Now depart and sleep.
[Exeunt Pages.
I purify the air with odorous fume.
Graves, vaults, and tombs, groan not to bear my weight;
Cold flesh, bleak trunks, wrapt in your half-rot shrouds,
I press you softly with a tender foot. 11
Most honour’d sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch
Leave to weep o’er thee. Tomb, I’ll not be long
Ere I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips
Kiss my cold father’s cheek. I prithee, grave,
Provide soft mold to wrap my carcass in.
Thou royal spirit of Andrugio,
Where’er thou hover’st, airy intellect,
I heave up tapers to thee (view thy son)
In celebration of due obsequies; 20
Once every night I’ll dew thy funeral hearse
With my religious tears.
O, blessèd father of a cursèd son,
Thou died’st most happy, since thou lived’st not
To see thy son most wretched, and thy wife
Pursued by him that seeks my guiltless blood!
O, in what orb thy mighty spirit soars,
Stoop and beat down this rising fog of shame,
That strives to blur thy blood, and girt defame
About my innocent and spotless brows. 30
Non est mori miserum, sed misere mori.