Lod. A slave condemned and given up to the gallows
Is thy great lord and master.
Gas. True; for thou
Art given up to the devil.
Lod. O you slave!
You that were held the famous politician,
Whose art was poison!
Gas. And whose conscience, murder!
Lod. That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs,
Ere she was poisoned!
Gas. That had your villanous salads!
Lod. And fine embroidered bottles and perfumes,
Equally mortal with a winter-plague!
Gas. Now there's mercury—
Lod. And copperas—
Gas. And quicksilver—
Lod. With other devilish pothecary stuff,
A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear?
Gas. This is Count Lodovico.
Lod. This, Gasparo:
And thou shalt die like a poor rogue.
Gas. And stink
Like a dead fly-blown dog.
Lod. And be forgotten
Before thy funeral sermon.
Brach. Vittoria!
Vittoria!
Lod, O, the cursèd devil
Comes to himself again! we are undone.
Gas. Strangle him in private.
Enter Vittoria Corombona, Francisco de Medicis, Flamineo, and Attendants.
What, will you call him again
To live in treble torments? for charity,
For Christian charity, avoid the chamber.
[Exeunt Vittoria Corombona, Francisco de Medicis, Flamineo, and Attendants.
Lod. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love-knot
Sent from the Duke of Florence.
[He strangles Brachiano.
Gas. What, is it done?
Lod. The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' the world,
Though she had practised seven year at the pest-house,
Could have done't quaintlier.
Re-enter Vittoria Corombona, Francisco de Medicis, Flamineo, and Attendants.
My lords, he's dead.
Omnes. Rest to his soul!
Vit. Cor. O me! this place is hell. [Exit.
Fran. de Med. How heavily she takes it!
Flam. O, yes, yes;
Had women navigable rivers in their eyes,
They would dispend them all: surely, I wonder
Why we should wish more rivers to the city,
When they sell water so good cheap. I'll tell thee,
These are but moonish shades of griefs or fears;
There's nothing sooner dry than women's tears.
Why, here's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing.
Court promises! let wise men count them cursed,
For while you live, he that scores best pays worst.
Fran. de Med. Sure, this was Florence' doing.
Flam. Very likely.
Those are found weighty strokes which come from the hand,
But those are killing strokes which come from the head.
O, the rare tricks of a Machiavelian!
He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave,
And buffet you to death: no, my quaint knave,
He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing,
As if you had swallowed down a pound of saffron.
You see the feat, 'tis practised in a trice;
To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice.
Fran. de Med. Now have the people liberty to talk,
And descant on his vices.
Flam. Misery of princes,
That must of force be censured by their slaves!
Not only blamed for doing things are ill,
But for not doing all that all men will:
One were better be a thresher.
Ud's death, I would fain speak with this duke yet.
Fran. de Med. Now he's dead?
Flam. I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths
Will get to the speech of him, though forty devils
Wait on him in his livery of flames,
I'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand,
Though I be blasted. [Exit.
Fran. de Med. Excellent Lodovico!
What, did you terrify him at the last gasp?
Lod. Yes, and so idly, that the duke had like
To have terrified us.
Fran. de Med. How?
Lod. You shall hear that hereafter.
Enter Zanche.
See, yon's the infernal that would make up sport.
Now to the revelation of that secret
She promised when she fell in love with you.
Fran. de Med. You're passionately met in this sad world.
Zanche. I would have you look up, sir; these court-tears
Claim not your tribute to them: let those weep
That guiltily partake in the sad cause.
I knew last night, by a sad dream I had,
Some mischief would ensue; yet, to say truth,
My dream most concerned you.
Lod. Shall's fall a-dreaming?
Fran. de Med. Yes; and for fashion sake I'll dream with her.
Zanche. Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed.
Fran. de Med. Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this light,
I was a-dreamt on thee too; for methought
I saw thee naked.
Zanche. Fie, sir! As I told you,
Methought you lay down by me.
Fran. de Med. So dreamt I;
And lest thou shouldst take cold, I covered thee
With this Irish mantle.
Zanche. Verily, I did dream
You were somewhat bold with me: but to come to't—
Lod. How, how! I hope you will not go to't here.
Fran. de Med. Nay, you must hear my dream out.
Zanche. Well, sir, forth.
Fran. de Med. When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laugh
Exceedingly, methought.
Zanche. Laugh!
Fran. de Med. And cried'st out,
The hair did tickle thee.
Zanche. There was a dream indeed!
Lod. Mark her, I prithee; she simpers like the suds
A collier hath been washed in.
Zanche. Come, sir, good fortune tends you. I did tell you
I would reveal a secret: Isabella,
The Duke of Florence' sister, was impoisoned
By a fumed picture; and Camillo's neck
Was broke by damned Flamineo, the mischance
Laid on a vaulting-horse.
Fran. de Med. Most strange!
Zanche. Most true.
Lod. The bed of snakes is broke.
Zanche. I sadly do confess I had a hand
In the black deed.
Fran. de Med. Thou kept'st their counsel?
Zanche. Right;
For which, urged with contrition, I intend
This night to rob Vittoria.
Lod. Excellent penitence!
Usurers dream on't while they sleep out sermons.
Zanche. To further our escape, I have entreated
Leave to retire me, till the funeral,
Unto a friend i' the country: that excuse
Will further our escape. In coin and jewels
I shall at least make good unto your use
An hundred thousand crowns.
Fran. de Med. O noble wench!
Lod. Those crowns we'll share.
Zanche. It is a dowry,
Methinks, should make that sun-burnt proverb false,
And wash the Æthiop white.
Fran. de Med. It shall. Away!
Zanche. Be ready for our flight.
Fran. de Med. An hour 'fore day. [Exit Zanche.
O strange discovery! why, till now we knew not
The circumstance of either of their deaths.
Re-enter Zanche.
Zanche. You'll wait about midnight in the chapel?