Lu. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm.
Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea,
We are roll’d up upon the Venice marsh,
Let’s clip all fortune, lest more low’ring fate— 50
And. More low’ring fate! O Lucio, choke that breath.
Now I defy chance: Fortune’s brow hath frown’d,
Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend:
Her venom’s spit. Alas, what country rests,
What son, what comfort that she can deprive?
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow?
Gapes not my native country for my blood?
Lies not my son tomb’d in the swelling main?
And yet more low’ring fate! There’s nothing left
Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio: 60
And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take.
Fortune my fortunes, not my mind, shall shake.
Lu. Spoke[102] like yourself; but give me leave, my Lord,
To wish your safety. If you are but seen,
Your arms display you; therefore put them off,
And take——.
And. Would’st thou have me go unarm’d among my foes?
Being besieg’d by passion, ent’ring lists,
To combat with despair and mighty grief;
My soul beleaguer’d with the crushing strength 70
Of sharp impatience? ha, Lucio, go unarm’d?
Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth;
Myself, myself will dare all opposites:[103]
I’ll muster forces, an unvanquish’d power:
Cornets of horse shall press th’ ungrateful earth;
This hollow wombèd mass shall inly groan,
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms:
Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair,
Shall hurry on before, and usher us,
Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death. 80
Lu. Peace, good my Lord, your speech is all too light.
Alas, survey your fortunes, look what’s left
Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes:
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self.
And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms,—
Why that’s an army all invincible!
He who hath that, hath a battalion royal,
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbèd steeds,
Main squares of pikes, millions of harquebush.
O, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide; 90
Legions of angels fight upon her side.[104]
Lu. Then, noble spirit, slide, in strange disguise,
Unto some gracious Prince, and sojourn there,
Till time and fortune give revenge firm means.
And. No, I’ll not trust the honour of a man.
Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness
A common waiter in most princes’ courts:
He’s in the check-roll;[105] I’ll not trust my blood;
I know none breathing but will cog a die[106]
For twenty thousand double pistolets. 100
How goes the time?