Ray. Be calm, my love;
Ha! who have we here? an eavesdropper?
Gio. Me, signor, be pover a jentle homa a Franch
A votre commandement.
Phil. My tailor.
Gio. Oui, monsieur, de madam tailor.
Ray. Some happy genius does attend my wishes,
Or, spirit-like, a page conducts unto me
The ministers whose sweat must send me ease:[39]
Come hither, Frenchman, canst thou rule thy tongue?
Art not too much a woman?
Gio. No, begare, me show someting for de man.
Ray. Or canst thou be like a perverse one—profess doggedness?
Be as a dead man dumb, briefly be this:
A friend to France, and with a silent speed
Post to our now approaching armed friends:
Tell them that Raymond, ere the hasty sand
Of a short hour be spent, shall be impal'd,
And on his brow, a deputy for France,
Support a golden wreath of kingly cares:
Bid 'em make haste to pluck my partner down
Into his grave; begone, as thou nursest
In thy breast thoughts that do thirst
For nobleness: be secret, and thou'rt made;
If not, thou'rt nothing. Mark, 'tis Raymond says it:
And, as I live, I breathe not, if my deeds
Appear not in a horror 'bove my words.
Gio. Begare, me no ned de threaten, me be as close to your secret, or my lady's secrets, as de skin to de flesh—de flesh to de bone: if me tell, call me de—vat de ye call de moder o de dog, de bich; call me de son o de bich.
Enter Fulgentio.
Ful. Count Machiavel waits your honour i' th' hall.