Aler. The governor
Slain by Antonio's hand?
Ful. No, by the hand of justice; fly, fly, my lord!
Aler. Send for a chirurgeon to dress Count Machiavel:
He must be now our governor; the king
Signed it in the dead governor's commission.
[Exeunt.
Ant. Now I repent too late my rash contempt:
The horror of a murtherer will still
Follow my guilty thoughts, fly where I will.
[Exit Antonio.
Mach. I'm wounded; else, coward Antonio,
Thou shouldst not fly from my revengeful arm:
But may my curses fall upon thy head,
Heavy as thunder! may'st thou die
Burthen'd with ulcerous sins, whose very weight
May sink thee down to hell,
Beneath the reach of smooth-fac'd mercy's arm!
[A shout within, crying Antonio.
Confusion choke your rash officious throats!
And may that breath that speaks his loathed name
Beget a plague, whose hot infectious air
May scald you up to blisters, which foretel
A purge of life! Up, Machiavel,
Thou hast thy will, howe'er cross fate
Divert the people's hearts; they must perforce
Sue to that shrine our liking shall erect.
The governor is dead, Antonio's lost
To anything but death; 'tis our glad fate
To gripe the staff of what we look'd for—state.
My blood's ambitious, and runs through my veins,
Like nimble water through a leaden pipe
Up to some barren mountain. I must have more;
All wealth, in my thoughts, to a crown is poor.