Canst thou, I say, repent this heinous act,
And learn to loathe that killing cockatrice?[299]
Sago. By this fresh blood, that from thy manly breast
I cowardly sluiced[300] out, I would in hell,
From this sad minute till[301] the day of doom,
To re-inspire vain Æsculapius,
And fill these crimson conduits, feel the fire 20
Due to the damnèd and this horrid fact![302]
Med. Upon my soul, brave Spaniard, I believe thee.
Sago. O cease to weep in blood, or teach me too!
The bubbling wounds[303] do murmur for revenge.
This is the end of lust, where men may see,
Murder’s the shadow of adultery,
And follows it to death.
Med. But, hopeful lord, we do commiserate
Thy bewitch’d fortunes, a free pardon give
On this thy true and noble penitence. 30
Withal we make thee colonel of our horse,
Levied against the proud Venetian state.
Sago. Medina, I thank thee not; give life to him
That sits with Risus and the full-cheek’d Bacchus,
The rich and mighty monarchs of the earth;
To me life is ten times more terrible
Than death can be to me. O, break, my breast!
Divines[304] and dying men may talk of hell,
But in my heart the several torments dwell.
What Tanais, Nilus, or what Tigris[305] swift, 40
What Rhenus ferier[306] than the cataract,—
Although[307] Neptolis cold, the waves of all the Northern Sea,
Should flow for ever through these guilty hands,
Yet the sanguinolent stain would extant be!
Med. God pardon thee! we do.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. The countess comes, my lord, unto the death;