SCENE II.

_Precincts of the palace of_ PIERO.

_Enter_ LUCIO, MARIA, _and_ NUTRICHE.

_Mar._ Stay, gentle Lucio, and vouchsafe thy hand.

_Lu._ O, Madam----.

_Mar._ Nay, prithee give me leave to say, vouchsafe; Submiss entreats beseem my humble fate. Here let us sit. O Lucio, fortune's gilt Is rubb'd quite off from my slight tin-foil'd state, And poor Maria must appear ungraced Of the bright fulgor of gloss'd majesty.

_Lu._ Cheer up your spirits, Madam; fairer chance, Than that which courts your presence instantly, 10 Can not be formed by the quick mould of thought.

_Mar._ Art thou assured the dukes are reconciled? Shall my womb's honour wed fair Mellida? Will heaven at length grant harbour to my head? Shall I once more clip my Andrugio, And wreath my arms about Antonio's neck? Or is glib rumour grown a parasite, Holding a false glass to my sorrow's eyes, Making the wrinkled front of grief seem fair, Though 'tis much rivell'd[207] with abortive care? 20

_Lu._ Most virtuous princess, banish straggling fear, Keep league with comfort. For these eyes beheld The dukes united; yon faint glimmering light Ne'er peepèd through the crannies of the east, Since I beheld them drink a sound carouse, In sparkling Bacchus, unto each other's health; Your son assur'd[208] to beauteous Mellida, And all clouds clear'd of threat'ning discontent.

_Mar._ What age is morning of?

_Lu._ I think 'bout five.

_Mar._ Nutriche, Nutriche! 30

_Nut._ Beshrow your fingers! marry, you have disturb'd the pleasure of the finest dream. O God! I was even coming to it, law. O Jesu! 'twas coming of the sweetest. I'll tell you now, methought I was married, and methought I spent (O Lord, why did you wake me?), and methought I spent three spur-royals[209] on the fiddlers for striking up a fresh hornpipe. Saint Ursula! I was even going to bed, and you, methought, my husband, was even putting out the tapers, when you--Lord I shall never have such a dream come upon me, as long as----. 40

_Mar._ Peace, idle creature, peace!--When will the court rise?

_Lu._ Madam, 'twere best you took some lodging up, And lay in private till the soil of grief Were clear'd your cheek, and new burnish'd lustre Clothèd your presence, 'fore you saw the dukes, And enter'd 'mong the proud Venetian states.[210]

_Mar._ No, Lucio, my dear lord is wise, and knows That tinsel glitter, or rich purfled[211] robes, Curl'd hairs, hung full of sparkling carcanets, Are not the true adornments of a wife. 50 So long as wives are faithful, modest, chaste, Wise lords affect them. Virtue doth not waste With each slight flame of crackling vanity. A modest eye forceth affection, Whilst outward gayness' light looks but entice: Fairer than nature's fair is foulest vice. She that loves art to get her cheek more lovers, Much outward gauds, slight inward grace discovers. I care not to seem fair but to my lord: Those that strive most to please most strangers' sight, Folly may judge most fair, wisdom most light. 61

[_Music sounds a short strain._

But hark, soft music gently moves the air! I think the bridegroom's up. Lucio, stand close. O now, Maria, challenge grief to stay Thy joy's encounter. Look, Lucio, 'tis clear day.

[_They retire to the back of the stage._

_Enter_ ANTONIO, GALEATZO, MATZAGENTE, BALURDO, PANDULPHO, FELICHE, ALBERTO, FOROBOSCO, CASTILIO, _and a Page_.

_Ant._ Darkness is fled: look, infant morn hath drawn Bright silver curtains 'bout the couch of night; And now Aurora's horse trots azure rings,[212] Breathing fair light about the firmament.-- Stand, what's that? 70

_Mat._ And if a hornèd devil should burst forth, I would pass on him with a mortal stock.[213]

_Alb._ Oh, a horned devil would prove ominous Unto a bridegroom's eyes.

_Mat._ A horned devil? Good: ha, ha, ha!--very good!

_Alb._ Good tann'd prince, laugh not. By the joys of love, When thou dost girn,[214] thy rusty face doth look Like the head of a roasted rabbit: fie upon't!

_Bal._ By my troth, methinks his nose is just colour de roy.[215]

_Mat._ I tell thee, fool, my nose will abide no jest. 80

_Bal._ No, in truth, I do not jest; I speak truth. Truth is the touchstone of all things; and, if your nose will not abide the truth, your nose will not abide the touch; and, if your nose will not abide the touch, your nose is a copper nose, and must be nail'd up for a slip.[216]

_Mat._ I scorn to retort the obtuse jest of a fool.

[BALURDO _draws out his writing tables, and writes_.

_Bal._ Retort and obtuse, good words, very good words.

_Gal._ Young prince, look sprightly; fie, a bridegroom sad!

_Bal._ In truth, if he were retort and obtuse, no question he would be merry; but, and please my genius, I will be most retort and obtuse ere night. I'll tell you what I'll bear soon at night in my shield, for my device. 92

_Gal._ What, good Balurdo?

_Bal._ O, do me right:--Sir Jeffrey Balurdo; sir, sir, as long as ye live, sir.

_Gal._ What, good Sir Jeffrey Balurdo?

_Bal._ Marry forsooth, I'll carry for my device my grandfather's great stone horse, flinging up his head, and jerking out his left leg: the word, "Wighy Purt." As I am a true knight, will't not be most retort and obtuse, ha? 101

_Ant._ Blow hence these sapless jests. I tell you, bloods, My spirit's heavy, and the juice of life Creeps slowly through my stiffen'd arteries. Last sleep, my sense was steep'd in horrid dreams: Three parts of night were swallow'd in the gulf Of ravenous time, when to my slumb'ring powers, Two meagre ghosts made apparition. The one's breast seem'd fresh paunch'd with bleeding wounds, Whose bubbling gore sprang in [my] frighted eyes; 110 The other ghost assum'd my father's shape: Both cried, "Revenge!" At which my trembling joints, Icèd quite over with a frozed cold sweat,[217] Leap'd forth the sheets. Three[218] times I g[r]asp'd at shades, And thrice, deluded by erroneous sense, I forc'd my thoughts make stand; when lo, I oped[219] A large bay window, th[o]rough which the night Struck terror to my soul. The verge of heaven Was ring'd with flames, and all the upper vault Thick-lac'd with flakes of fire; in midst whereof 120 A blazing comet shot his threat'ning train Just on my face. Viewing these prodigies, I bow'd my naked knee and pierc'd the star With an outfacing eye, pronouncing thus: _Deus imperat astris_. At which, my nose straight bled; Then doubted I my word, so slunk to bed. 126

_Bal._ Verily, Sir Jeffrey had a monstrous strange dream the last night. For methought I dreamt I was asleep, and methought the ground yawn'd and belkt up the abhominable ghost of a misshapen simile, with two ugly pages; the one called master, even as going before; and the other mounser,[220] even so following after; whilst Signior Simile stalk'd most prodigiously in the midst. At which I bewray'd[221] the fearfulness of my nature, and being ready to forsake the fortress of my wit, start up, called for a clean shirt, ate a mess of broth, and with that I awaked.

_Ant._ I prithee, peace. I tell you, gentlemen, The frightful shades of night yet shake my brain: My jellied[222] blood's not thaw'd: the sulphur damps, 140 That flew[223] in wingèd lightning 'bout my couch, Yet stick within my sense, my soul is great In expectation of dire prodigies.

_Pan._ Tut, my young prince, let not thy fortunes see Their lord a coward. He that's nobly born Abhors to fear: base fear's the brand of slaves. He that observes, pursues, slinks back for fright, Was never cast in mould of noble sprite.

_Gal._ Tush, there's a sun will straight exhale these damps Of chilling fear. Come, shall's salute the bride? 150

_Ant._ Castilio, I prithee mix thy breath with his: Sing one of Signior Renaldo's airs, To rouse the slumb'ring bride from gluttoning In surfeit of superfluous sleep. Good signior, sing.

[_A Song._

What means this silence and unmovèd calm? Boy, wind thy cornet: force the leaden gates Of lazy sleep fly open with thy breath. My Mellida not up? not stirring yet? umh!

_Mar._ That voice should be my son's, Antonio's. Antonio! 160

_Ant._ Here: who calls? here stands Antonio.

_Mar._ Sweet son!

_Ant._ Dear mother!

_Mar._ Fair honour of a chaste and loyal bed, Thy father's beauty, thy sad mother's love, Were I as powerful as the voice of fate, Felicity complete should sweet thy state; But all the blessings that a poor banish'd wretch Can pour upon thy head, take, gentle son: Live, gracious youth, to close thy mother's eyes, 170 Loved of thy parents, till their latest hour. How cheers my lord, thy father? O sweet boy, Part of him thus I clip, my dear, dear joy.

[_Embraces_ ANTONIO.

_Ant._ Madam, last night I kissed his princely hand, And took a treasured blessing from his lips. O mother, you arrive in jubilee, And firm atonement of all boist'rous rage; Pleasure, united love, protested faith, Guard my loved father, as sworn pensioners: The dukes are leagued in firmest bond of love, 180 And you arrive even in the solsticy And highest point of sunshine happiness.

[_One winds a cornet within._

Hark, madam, how yon cornet jerketh up His strain'd shrill accents in the capering air, As proud to summon up my bright-cheek'd love! Now, mother, ope wide expectation; Let loose your amplest sense, to entertain Th' impression of an object of such worth That life's too poor to----

_Gal._ Nay, leave hyperboles.

_Ant._ I tell thee, prince, that presence straight appears Of which thou canst not form hyperboles; 191 The trophy of triumphing excellence, The heart of beauty, Mellida appears. See, look, the curtain stirs; shine nature's pride, Love's vital spirit, dear Antonio's bride.

[_The curtain's drawn, and the body of_ FELICHE, _stabb'd thick with wounds, appears hung up_.

What villain bloods the window of my love? What slave hath hung yon gory ensign up In flat defiance of humanity? Awake, thou fair unspotted purity! Death's at thy window, awake, bright Mellida! 200 Antonio calls!

_Enter_ PIERO, _unbraced, with_ FOROBOSCO.

_Pier._ Who gives these ill-befitting attributes Of chaste, unspotted, bright, to Mellida? He lies as loud as thunder: she's unchaste, Tainted, impure, black as the soul of hell.

[ANTONIO _draws his rapier, offers to run at_ PIERO, _but_ MARIA _holds his arm and stays him_.

_Ant._ Dog! I will make thee eat thy vomit up, Which thou hast belkt 'gainst taintless Mellida.

_Pier._[224] Ram't quickly down, that it may not rise up To imbraid[225] my thoughts. Behold my stomach; Strike me quite through with the relentless edge 210 Of raging fury. Boy, I'll kill thy love. Pandulf Feliche, I have stabb'd thy son: Look, yet his lifeblood reeks upon this steel. Albert, yon hangs thy friend. Have none of you Courage of vengeance? Forget I am your duke; Think Mellida is not Piero's blood; Imagine on slight ground I'll blast his honour; Suppose I saw not that incestuous slave, Clipping the strumpet with luxurious twines![226] O, numb my sense of anguish, cast my life 220 In a dead sleep, whilst law cuts off yon maim,[227] Yon putrid ulcer of my royal blood!

_For._ Keep league with reason, gracious sovereign.

_Pier._ There glow no sparks of reason in the world; All are raked up in ashy beastliness. The bulk of man's as dark as Erebus, No branch of reason's light hangs in his trunk: There lives no reason to keep league withal. I ha' no reason to be reasonable. Her wedding eve, link'd to the noble blood 230 Of my most firmly-reconcilèd friend, And found even cling'd in sensuality! O heaven! O heaven! Were she as near my heart As is my liver, I would rend her off.

_Enter_ STROTZO.

_Str._ Whither, O whither shall I hurl vast grief!

_Pier._ Here, into my breast: 'tis a place built wide By fate, to give receipt to boundless woes.

_Str._ O no; here throb those hearts, which I must cleave With my keen-piercing news. Andrugio's dead.

_Pier._ Dead! 240

_Mar._ O me, most miserable!

_Pier._ Dead! alas, how dead? [_Gives seeming passion._ [_Aside._] Fut, weep, act, feign--Dead! alas, how dead?

_Str._ The vast delights of his large sudden joys Open'd his powers so wide, that 's native heat So prodigally flow'd t' exterior parts, That th'inner citadel was left unmann'd, And so surpris'd on sudden by cold death.

_Mar._ O fatal, disastrous, cursèd, dismal! Choke breath and life! I breathe, I live too long. 250 Andrugio, my lord, I come, I come! [_Swoons._

_Pier._ Be cheerful, princess; help, Castilio, The lady's swounèd;[228] help to bear her in: Slow comfort to huge cares is swiftest sin.

_Bal._ Courage, courage, sweet lady, 'tis Sir Jeffrey Balurdo bids you courage. Truly I am as nimble as an elephant about a lady.

[_Exeunt_ PIERO, CASTILIO, FOROBOSCO _and_ BALURDO, _bearing out_ MARIA.

_Pan._ Dead!

_Ant._ Dead!

_Alb._ Dead! 260

_Ant._ Why, now the womb of mischief is deliver'd, Of the prodigious issue of the night.

_Pan._ Ha, ha, ha!

_Ant._ My father dead: my love attaint of lust,-- That's a large lie, as vast as spacious hell! Poor guiltless lady! O, accursèd lie! What, whom, whither, which shall I first lament? A[229] dead father, a dishonour'd wife? Stand. Methinks I feel the frame of nature shake. Cracks not the joints of earth to bear my woes? 270

_Alb._ Sweet prince, be patient.

_Ant._ 'Slid, sir, I will not in despite of thee. Patience is slave to fools: a chain that's fixt Only to posts, and senseless log-like dolts.

_Alb._ 'Tis reason's glory to command affects.[230]

_Ant._ Lies thy cold father dead, his glossèd eyes New closèd up by thy sad mother's hands? Hast thou a love, as spotless as the brow Of clearest heaven, blurr'd with false defames? Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief 280 Of parching mischiefs? Tell me, does thy heart With punching anguish spur thy gallèd ribs? Then come, let's sit[231] and weep and wreathe our arms: I'll hear thy counsel.

_Alb._ Take comfort.

_Ant._ Confusion to all comfort! I defy it. Comfort's a parasite, a flattering jack,[232] And melts resolv'd despair. O boundless woe, If there be any black yet unknown grief, If there be any horror yet unfelt, 290 Unthought of mischief in thy fiend-like power, Dash it upon my miserable head; Make me more wretch, more cursèd if thou canst! O, now my fate is more than I could fear: My woes more weighty than my soul can bear. [_Exit._

_Pan._ Ha, ha, ha!

_Alb._ Why laugh you, uncle? That's my coz, your son, Whose breast hangs casèd in his cluttered[233] gore.

_Pan._ True, man, true: why, wherefore should I weep? Come, sit, kind nephew: come on; thou and I 300 Will talk as chorus to this tragedy. Entreat the music strain their instruments With a slight touch, whilst we--Say on, fair coz.

_Alb._ He was the very hope of Italy,

[_Music sounds softly._

The blooming honour of your drooping age.

_Pan._ True, coz, true. They say that men of hope are crush'd; Good are supprest by base desertless clods, That stifle gasping virtue. Look, sweet youth, How provident our quick Venetians are, Lest hooves of jades should trample on my boy: 310 Look how they lift him up to eminence, Heave him 'bove reach of flesh. Ha, ha, ha!

_Alb._ Uncle, this laughter ill becomes your grief.

_Pan._ Would'st have me cry, run raving up and down, For my son's loss? Would'st have me turn rank mad, Or wring my face with mimic action; Stamp, curse, weep, rage, and then my bosom strike? Away, 'tis aspish action, player-like.[234] If he is guiltless, why should tears be spent? Thrice blessèd soul that dieth innocent. 320 If he is leper'd with so foul a guilt, Why should a sigh be lent, a tear be spilt? The gripe of chance is weak to wring a tear From him that knows what fortitude should bear. Listen, young blood. 'Tis not true valour's pride To swagger, quarrel, swear, stamp, rave, and chide, To stab in fume of blood, to keep loud coil[s] To bandy factions in domestic broils, To dare the act of sins, whose filth excels The blackest customs of blind infidels. 330 No, my lov'd youth: he may of valour vaunt Whom fortune's loudest thunder cannot daunt; Whom fretful gales of chance, stern fortune's siege, Makes not his reason slink, the soul's fair liege; Whose well-pais'd[235] action ever rests upon Not giddy humours but discretion. This heart in valour even Jove out-goes: Jove is without, but this 'bove sense of woes:[236] And such a one, eternity. Behold-- Good morrow, son; thou bid'st a fig for cold. 340 Sound louder music: let my breath exact [_Loud music._ You strike sad tones unto this dismal act.

[_Exeunt._

[207] Wrinkled.

[208] Affianced.

[209] Spur-royal was a gold coin worth fifteen shillings.

[210] Nobles.

[211] Embroidered (_Fr._ pourfiler).

[212] To make a horse _tread the ring_ was an equestrian feat. The _ring_ was the circular piece of ground on which the horse displayed his agility. See note on Middleton, vol. i. p. 190.

[213] Stockado, stoccata,--a thrust in fencing.

[214] Grin or snarl.

[215] "_Couleur de Roy_ was in the old time Purple; but now is the bright Tawnie which wee also tearme _Coulour de Roy_."--_Cotgrave._

[216] A counterfeit coin.

[217] A reminiscence of Virgil:-- "Tum gelidus toto manabat corpore sudor: Corripio e stratis corpus."--_Æn._ iii. 174-5.

[218] Again we are reminded of Virgil:-- "Ter conatus ibi collo dare brachia circum, Ter frustra comprensa manus effugit imago."--_Æn._ vi, 699-700.

[219] For "I oped" old eds. give "top't."

[220] Old form of "monsieur."--Balurdo is talking arrant nonsense.

[221] The dramatists are fond of punning on the words, (1) bewray (betray), (2) beray (befoul). Cf. Middleton, i. 82, &c.

[222] Old eds. "gellied," which I take to be _jellied_--not _gelid_. In the first edition of Shelley's _Cenci_ (iv. 3) we have:--"The _gellyed blood_ runs freely through my veins:" later editions read _jellied_.

[223] Old eds. "flow."

[224] Not marked in ed. 1602.

[225] Reproach, upbraid.

[226] "Luxurious twines"--lustful embraces.

[227] Old eds. "maine."

[228] So ed. 1602.--Ed. 1633, "swounded."

[229] The metrical harshness might be removed by reading "A father dead, a wife dishonour'd."

[230] Affections, feelings.

[231] Old eds. "and let's sit."

[232] Saucy fellow.

[233] "'_Grumean de sang_, a clot or _clutter_ of congealed blood,' Cotgrave. _Cluttered_ blood, 'Holinshed, _Hist. Engl._ p. 74.'"--_Halliwell._

[234] There seems to be an allusion to old Hieronymo's frantic behaviour in _The Spanish Tragedy_.

[235] Well-balanced.

[236] A Stoic sentiment. Seneca writes:--"Est aliquid quo sapiens antecedat deum: ille beneficio naturæ non timet, suo sapiens." (_Ep. Mor._, Lib. vi, Ep. 1.) But see particularly the quotation from Seneca on p. 133.