A Servant sleeping, with lights and money before him. Music.
Enter D'Amville.
D'Am. What, sleep'st thou?
Ser. [Awaking] No, my lord. Nor sleep nor wake;
But in a slumber troublesome to both.
D 'Am. Whence comes this gold?
Ser. 'Tis part of the revenue
Due to your lordship since your brother's death.
D'Am. To bed. Leave me my gold.
Ser. And me my rest.
Two things wherewith one man is seldom blest.
[Exit.
D'Am. Cease that harsh music. We are not pleased with it.
[He handles the gold.
Here sounds a music whose melodious touch
Like angels' voices ravishes the sense.
Behold, thou ignorant astronomer
Whose wandering speculation seeks among
The planets for men's fortunes, with amazement
Behold thine error and be planet-struck.
These are the stars whose operations make
The fortunes and the destinies of men.
Yon lesser eyes of Heaven (like subjects raised
Into their lofty houses, when their prince
Rides underneath the ambition of their loves)
Are mounted only to behold the face
Of your more rich imperious eminence
With unprevented sight. Unmask, fair queen.
[Unpurses the gold.
Vouchsafe their expectations may enjoy
The gracious favour[174] they admire to see.
These are the stars, the ministers of Fate,
And man's high wisdom the superior power
To which their forces are subordinate. [Sleeps.
Enter the Ghost of Montferrers.
Mont. D'Amville! With all thy wisdom th'art a fool.
Not like those fools that we term innocents,
But a most wretched miserable fool
Which instantly, to the confusion of
Thy projects, with despair thou shalt behold.
[Exit Ghost.
D'Am. [Starting up.] What foolish dream dares interrupt my rest
To my confusion? How can that be, since
My purposes have hitherto been borne
With prosperous judgment to secure success,
Which nothing lives to dispossess me of
But apprehended[175] Charlemont. And him
This brain has made the happy instrument
To free suspicion, to annihilate
All interest and title of his own
To seal up my assurance, and confirm
My absolute possession by the law.
Thus while the simple, honest worshipper
Of a fantastic providence, groans under
The burthen of neglected misery,
My real wisdom has raised up a state
That shall eternise my posterity.
Enter Servant with the body of Sebastian.
What's that?
Ser. The body of your younger son,
Slain by the Lord Belforest.
D'Am. Slain! You lie!
Sebastian! Speak, Sebastian! He's lost
His hearing. A physician presently.
Go, call a surgeon.
Rous. O—oh! [Within.
D'Am. What groan was that?
How does my elder son? The sound came from
His chamber.
Ser. He went sick to bed, my lord.
Rous. O—oh! [Within.
D'Am. The cries of mandrakes never touched the ear
With more sad horror than that voice does mine.
Enter a Servant running.
Ser. Never you will see your son alive—
D'Am. Nature forbid I e'er should see him dead.
[A bed drawn forth with Rousard on it.
Withdraw the curtains. O how does my son?
Ser. Methinks he's ready to give up the ghost.
D'Am. Destruction take thee and thy fatal tongue.
Dead! where's the doctor?—Art not thou the face
Of that prodigious apparition stared upon
Me in my dream?
Ser. The doctor's come, my lord.
Enter Doctor.