Aur. What must she second?
Mach. Art thou there, my love?
We're in a path that leads us to a height,
We may confront the sun, and with a breath
Extinguish common stars; be but thou rul'd,
The light, that does create day to this city,
Must be deriv'd from us.
Aur. You fire my soul,
And to my airy wings add quicker feathers:
What task would not I run to be call'd queen?
Did the life-blood of all our family,
Father and mother, stand as a quick wall
To stop my passage to a throne,
I'd with a poignard ope their azure veins,
And squeeze their active blood up into clods,
Till they become as cold as winter's snow;
And as a bridge upon their trunks I'd go.
Mach. Our souls are twins, and thirst with equal heat
For deity: kings are in all things gods,
Saving mortality.
Aur. To be a queen, what danger would I run!
I'd spend my life like to a barefoot nun,
So I might sit above the lesser stars
Of small nobility, but for a day.
Mach. 'Tis to be done, sweet love, a nearer way:
I have already with the sugar'd baits
Of justice, liberality, and all
The fox-like gins that subtle statesmen set
To catch the hearts o' th' giddy multitude:
Which, if it fail, as cautious policy
Forbids, I build too strongly on their drunk,
Uncertain votes. I'd have thee break with my
Great prisoner's wife, as I will do with him;
Promise (the states equal divided) half
Himself shall rule:
So that if need compel us to take arms,
We may have forces from the realm of France,
To seat us in the chair of government.
Aur. I never shall endure to walk as equal
With proud Philippa, no; my ambitious soul
Boils in a thirsty flame of total glory:
I must be all without a second flame
To dim our lustre.
Mach. Still my very soul!
Think'st thou I can endure competitor,
Or let an Ethiop sit by Machiavel's side
As partner in his honour? no, as I
Have seen i' the commonwealth of players,
One that did act the Theban Creon's part:
With such a life I became ravish'd, and on
Raymond mean to plot what he did on
The cavilling boys of Œdipus,
Whilst we grasp the whole dignity.
Aur. As how, sweet Machiavel?
Mach. It is not ripe, my love.
The king, I hear, applauds my justice;
Wherefore I've sent order that Count Antonio,
Once being taken, be sent to Filford Mill;
There ground to death.