Alb. Yes, and triumphant revels mount aloft.
The Duke drinks deep to overflow his grief;
The court is rack’d to pleasure; each man strains
To feign a jocund eye. The Florentine——
Ant. Young Galeatzo!
Alb. Even he is mighty on our part. The states of Venice,—
Enter Pandulpho, running, in masking attire.
Pan. Like high-swoll’n floods drive down the muddy dams
Of pent allegiance. O, my lusty bloods,
Heaven sits clapping of our enterprise. 30
I have been labouring general favour firm,
And I do find the citizens grown sick
With swallowing the bloody crudities
Of black Piero’s acts; they fain would cast
And vomit him from off their government.
Now is the plot of mischief ript wide ope;
Letters are found ’twixt Strotzo and the Duke,
So clear apparent, yet more firmly strong
By suiting circumstance, that, as I walk’d,
Muffled, to eavesdrop speech, I might observe 40
The graver statesmen whispering fearfully.
Here one gives nods and hums what he would speak;
The rumour’s got ’mong troop of citizens,
Making loud murmur, with confusèd din;
One shakes his head and sighs, “O ill-used power!”
Another frets, and sets his grinding teeth,
Foaming with rage, and swears this must not be;
Here one complots, and on a sudden starts,
And cries, O monstrous, O deep villainy!
All knit their nerves, and from beneath swoll’n brows 50
Appears a gloating eye of much mislike;
Whilst swart Piero’s lips reak steam of wine,
Swallows lust-thoughts, devours all pleasing hopes,
With strong imagination of—what not?
O now Vindicta! that’s the word we have,
A royal vengeance, or a royal grave!
Ant. Vindicta!
Bal. [From beneath the stage.] I am acold.
Pan. Who’s there? Sir Jeffrey?
Bal. A poor knight, god wot: the nose of thy knighthood is bitten off with cold. O poor Sir Jeffrey, cold, cold! 62