Mal. Because (thanks to some churchmen) our age will leave them nothing to sin with. But adultery, O dulness! should show[376] exemplary punishment, that intemperate bloods may freeze but to think it. I would damn him and all his generation: my own hands should do it; ha, I would not trust heaven with my vengeance:—anything. 191
Pietro. Anything, anything, Malevole: thou shalt see instantly what temper my spirit holds. Farewell; remember I forget thee not; farewell.
[Exit Pietro.
Mal.[377] Farewell.
Lean thoughtfulness, a sallow meditation,
Suck thy veins dry, distemperance rob thy sleep!
The heart’s disquiet is revenge most deep:
He that gets blood, the life of flesh but spills,
But he that breaks heart’s peace, the dear soul kills. 200
Well, this disguise doth yet afford me that
Which kings do seldom hear, or great men use,—
Free speech: and though my state’s usurp’d,
Yet this affected strain gives me a tongue
As fetterless as in an emperor’s.
I may speak foolishly, ay, knavishly,
Always carelessly, yet no one thinks it fashion
To poise my breath; for he that laughs and strikes
Is lightly felt, or seldom struck again.
Duke, I’ll torment thee now; my just revenge 210
From thee than crown a richer gem shall part:
Beneath God, naught’s so dear as a calm heart.
Re-enter Celso.
Celso. My honour’d lord,—
Mal. Peace, speak low, peace! O Celso, constant lord,
(Thou to whose faith I only rest discover’d,
Thou, one of full ten millions of men,
That lovest virtue only for itself;
Thou in whose hands old Ops may put her soul)
Behold forever-banish’d Altofront,
This Genoa’s last year’s duke. O truly noble! 220
I wanted those old instruments of state,
Dissemblance and suspect: I could not time it, Celso;
My throne stood like a point midst[378] of a circle,
To all of equal nearness; bore with none;
Rein’d all alike; so slept in fearless virtue,
Suspectless, too suspectless; till the crowd,
(Still lickorous of untried novelties)
Impatient with severer government
Made strong with Florence, banish’d Altofront.
Celso. Strong with Florence! ay, thence your mischief rose; 230
For when the daughter of the Florentine
Was match’d once with this Pietro, now duke,
No stratagem of state untried was left,
Till you of all——