Mal. Of all was quite bereft:
Alas, Maria too close prisonèd,
My true-faith’d duchess, i’ the citadel!
Celso. I’ll still adhere: let’s mutiny and die.
Mal. O, no,[379] climb not a falling tower, Celso;
’Tis well held desperation, no zeal,
Hopeless to strive with fate: peace; temporise. 240
Hope, hope, that ne’er forsak’st the wretched’st man,
Yet bidd’st me live, and lurk in this disguise!
What, play I well the free-breath’d discontent?
Why, man, we are all philosophical monarchs
Or natural fools. Celso, the court’s a-fire;
The duchess’ sheets will smoke for’t ere’t be long:
Impure Mendoza, that sharp-nos’d lord, that made
The cursèd match link’d Genoa with Florence,
Now broad-horns the duke, which he now knows.
Discord to malcontents is very manna: 250
When the ranks are burst, then scuffle, Altofront.
Celso. Ay, but durst——
Mal. ’Tis gone; ’tis swallow’d like a mineral:
Some way ’twill work; pheut, I’ll not shrink:
He’s resolute who can no lower sink.
Bilioso re-entering, Malevole shifteth his speech.
O[380] the father of May-poles! did you never see a fellow whose strength consisted in his breath, respect in his office, religion in[381] his lord, and love in himself? why, then, behold.
Bil. Signior,— 260
Mal. My right worshipful lord, your court night-cap makes you have a passing high forehead.