How now! thou art sad.
Fran. de Med. I met even now with the most piteous sight.
Flam. Thou meet'st another here, a pitiful
Degraded courtier.
Fran. de Med. Your reverend mother
Is grown a very old woman in two hours.
I found them winding of Marcello's corse;
And there is such a solemn melody,
'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,—
Such as old grandams watching by the dead
Were wont to outwear the nights with,—that, believe me,
I had no eyes to guide me forth the room,
They were so o'ercharged with water.
Flam. I will see them.
Fran. de Med. 'Twere much uncharity in you; for your sight
Will add unto their tears.
Flam. I will see them:
They are behind the traverse;[89] I'll discover
Their superstitious howling. [Draws the Curtain.
Cornelia, Zanche, and three other Ladies discovered winding Marcello's corse. A Song.
Cor. This rosemary is withered; pray, get fresh.
I would have these herbs grow up in his grave,
When I am dead and rotten. Reach the bays,
I'll tie a garland here about his head;
'Twill keep my boy from lightning. This sheet
I have kept this twenty year, and every day
Hallowed it with my prayers: I did not think
He should have wore it.
Zanche. Look you who are yonder.
Cor. O, reach me the flowers.
Zanche. Her ladyship's foolish.
Lady. Alas, her grief
Hath turned her child again!
Cor. You're very welcome:
There's rosemary for you;—and rue for you;—
[To Flamineo.
Heart's-ease for you; I pray make much of it:
I have left more for myself.
Fran. de Med. Lady, who's this?
Cor. You are, I take it, the grave-maker.
Flam. So.
Zanche. 'Tis Flamineo.
Cor. Will you make me such a fool? here's a white hand:
Can blood so soon be washed out? let me see;
When screech-owls croak upon the chimney-tops,
And the strange cricket i' the oven sings and hops,
When yellow spots do on your hands appear,
Be certain then you of a corse shall hear.
Out upon't, how 'tis speckled! h'as handled a toad, sure.
Cowslip-water is good for the memory:
Pray, buy me three ounces of't.
Flam. I would I were from hence.
Cor. Do you hear, sir?
I'll give you a saying which my grandmother
Was wont, when she heard the bell toll, to sing o'er
Unto her lute.
Flam. Do, an you will, do.
Cor. "Call for the robin-red-breast and the wren,
[Cornelia doth this in several forms of distraction.
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm:
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again."[90]
They would not bury him 'cause he died in a quarrel;
But I have an answer for them:
"Let holy church receive him duly,
Since he paid the church-tithes truly."
His wealth is summed, and this is all his store,
This poor men get, and great men get no more.
Now the wares are gone, we may shut up shop.
Bless you all, good people.
[Exeunt Cornelia, Zanche, and Ladies.
Flam. I have a strange thing in me, to the which
I cannot give a name, without it be
Compassion. I pray, leave me.
[Exit Francisco de Medicis.
This night I'll know the utmost of my fate;
I'll be resolved[91] what my rich sister means
To assign me for my service. I have lived
Riotously ill, like some that live in court,
And sometimes when my face was full of smiles,
Have felt the maze of conscience in my breast.
Oft gay and honoured robes those tortures try:
We think caged birds sing, when indeed they cry.
Enter Brachiano's ghost, in his leather cassock and breeches, boots and cowl; in his hand a pot of lily-flowers, with a skull in it.
Ha! I can stand thee: nearer, nearer yet.
What a mockery hath death made thee! thou look'st sad.
In what place art thou? in yon starry gallery?
Or in the cursèd dungeon?—No? not speak?
Pray, sir, resolve me, what religion's best
For a man to die in? or is it in your knowledge
To answer me how long I have to live?
That's the most necessary question:
Not answer? are you still like some great men
That only walk like shadows up and down,
And to no purpose? say:—
[The Ghost throws earth upon him, and shows him the skull.
What's that? O, fatal! he throws earth upon me!
A dead man's skull beneath the roots of flowers!—
I pray, speak, sir: our Italian churchmen
Make us believe dead men hold conference
With their familiars, and many times
Will come to bed to them, and eat with them.
[Exit Ghost.
He's gone; and see, the skull and earth are vanished.
This is beyond melancholy. I do dare my fate
To do its worst. Now to my sister's lodging,
And sum up all these horrors: the disgrace
The prince threw on me; next the piteous sight
Of my dead brother; and my mother's dotage;
And last this terrible vision: all these
Shall with Vittoria's bounty turn to good.
Or I will drown this weapon in her blood. [Exit.
SCENE V.—A Street in Padua.
Enter Francisco de Medicis, Lodovico, and Hortensio.