Arragon. [On the church battlements.] Denuntio vobis[77] gaudium magnum. Reverendissimus cardinalis Lorenzo de Monticelso electus est in sedem apostolicam, et elegit sibi nomen Paulum Quartum.
Omnes. Vivat sanctus pater Paulus Quartus!
Enter Servant.
Serv. Vittoria, my lord,—
Fran. de Med. Well, what of her?
Serv. Is fled the city,—
Fran. de Med. Ha!
Serv. With Duke Brachiano.
Fran. de Med. Fled! Where's the Prince Giovanni?
Serv. Gone with his father.
Fran. de Med. Let the matrona of the convertites
Be apprehended.—Fled! O, damnable!
[Exit Servant.
How fortunate are my wishes! why, 'twas this
I only laboured: I did send the letter
To instruct him what to do. Thy fame, fond[78] duke,
I first have poisoned; directed thee the way
To marry a whore: what can be worse? This follows,—
The hand must act to drown the passionate tongue:
I scorn to wear a sword and prate of wrong.
Enter Monticelso in state.
Mont. Concedimus vobis apostolicam benedictionem et remissionem peccatorum.
My lord reports Vittoria Corombona
Is stol'n from forth the house of convertites
By Brachiano, and they're fled the city.
Now, though this be the first day of our state,
We cannot better please the divine power
Than to sequester from the holy church
These cursèd persons. Make it therefore known,
We do denounce excommunication
Against them both: all that are theirs in Rome
We likewise banish. Set on.
[Exeunt Monticelso, his train, Ambassadors, &c.
Fran. de Med. Come, dear Lodovico;
You have ta'en the sacrament to prosecute
The intended murder.
Lod. With all constancy.
But, sir, I wonder you'll engage yourself
In person, being a great prince.
Fran. de Med. Divert me not.
Most of his court are of my faction,
And some are of my council. Noble friend,
Our danger shall be like in this design:
Give leave, part of the glory may be mine.
[Exeunt Fran. de Med. and Gasparo.
Re-enter Monticelso.
Mont. Why did the Duke of Florence with such care
Labour your pardon? say.
Lod. Italian beggars will resolve you that,
Who, begging of an alms, bid those they beg of,
Do good for their own sakes; or it may be,
He spreads his bounty with a sowing hand,
Like kings, who many times give out of measure,
Not for desert so much, as for their pleasure.
Mont. I know you're cunning. Come, what devil was that
That you were raising?
Lod. Devil, my lord!
Mont. I ask you
How doth the duke employ you, that his bonnet
Fell with such compliment unto his knee,
When he departed from you?
Lod. Why, my lord,
He told me of a resty Barbary horse
Which he would fain have brought to the career,
The sault, and the ring-galliard;[79] now, my lord,
I have a rare French rider.
Mont. Take you heed
Lest the jade break your neck. Do you put me off
With your wild horse-tricks? Sirrah, you do lie.
O, thou'rt a foul black cloud, and thou dost threat
A violent storm!
Lod. Storms are i' the air, my lord:
I am too low to storm.
Mont. Wretched creature!
I know that thou art fashioned for all ill,
Like dogs that once get blood, they'll ever kill.
About some murder? was't not?
Lod. I'll not tell you:
And yet I care not greatly if I do;
Marry, with this preparation. Holy father,
I come not to you as an intelligencer,
But as a penitent sinner: what I utter
Is in confession merely; which you know
Must never be revealed.
Mont. You have o'erta'en me.
Lod. Sir, I did love Brachiano's duchess dearly,
Or rather I pursued her with hot lust,
Though she ne'er knew on't. She was poisoned;
Upon my soul; she was; for which I have sworn
To avenge her murder.
Mont. To the Duke of Florence?
Lod. To him I have.
Mont. Miserable creature!
If thou persist in this, 'tis damnable.
Dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood,
And not be tainted with a shameful fall?
Or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree,
Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves,
And yet to prosper? Instruction to thee
Comes like sweet showers to over-hardened ground;
They wet, but pierce not deep. And so I leave thee,
With all the Furies hanging 'bout thy neck,
Till by thy penitence thou remove this evil,
In conjuring from thy breast that cruel devil.
[Exit.
Lod. I'll give it o'er; he says 'tis damnable,
Besides I did expect his suffrage,
By reason of Camillo's death.
Re-enter Francisco de Medicis with a Servant.
Fran. de Med. Do you know that count?
Serv. Yes, my lord.
Fran. de Med. Bear him these thousand ducats to his lodging;
Tell him the Pope hath sent them.—[Aside.] Happily
That will confirm him more than all the rest.
[Exit.
Serv. Sir,—[Exit.
Lod. To me, sir?
Serv. His Holiness hath sent you a thousand crowns,
And wills you, if you travel, to make him
Your patron for intelligence.
Lod. His creature ever to be commanded.
[Exit Servant.
Why, now 'tis come about. He railed upon me;
And yet these crowns were told out and laid ready
Before he knew my voyage. O the art,
The modest form of greatness! that do sit,
Like brides at wedding-dinners, with their looks turned
From the least wanton jest, their puling stomach
Sick of the modesty, when their thoughts are loose,
Even acting of those hot and lustful sports
Are to ensue about midnight: such his cunning:
He sounds my depth thus with a golden plummet.
I am doubly armed now. Now to the act of blood,
There's but three Furies found in spacious hell,
But in a great man's breast three thousand dwell.
[Exit.