SCENE III.--_A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace.

_Enter the ~Duke~, ~Doctor~_ BENEDICT, _and two ~Servants~_.

_Duke._ Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors-- [_Speaking as he enters._ And fellows, what your eyes and ears receive, Upon your lives trust not the gadding air To carry the least part of it. The glass, the hour-glass!

_Doct._ Here, my lord. [_Brings hour-glass._

_Duke._ Ah, ’tis near spent! But, Doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth? Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb, And leave the crystal banks of her white body Pure as they were at first, just at the hour?

_Doct._ Just at the hour, my lord.

_Duke._ Uncurtain her:

[_A curtain is drawn back and_ INFELICE _discovered lying on a couch_.

Softly!--See, doctor, what a coldish heat Spreads over all her body!

_Doct._ Now it works: The vital spirits that by a sleepy charm Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust On her exterior parts, now ’gin to break; Trouble her not, my lord.

_Duke._ Some stools! [_~Servants~ set stools_.] You called For music, did you not? Oh ho, it speaks, [_Music._ It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking, note those sands. Doctor, sit down: A dukedom that should weigh Mine own down twice, being put into one scale, And that fond[134] desperate boy, Hippolito, Making the weight up, should not at my hands Buy her i’th’other, were her state more light Than her’s, who makes a dowry up with alms. Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine Ere he shall marry her. I must confess, Hippolito is nobly born; a man-- Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins-- Whom I would court to be my son-in-law; But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell, Are not with easy art made parallel.

[134] Foolish.

_Servants._ She wakes, my lord.

_Duke._ Look, Doctor Benedict-- I charge you on your lives, maintain for truth, What e’er the doctor or myself aver, For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo.

_Inf._ O God, what fearful dreams! [_Wakening._

_Doct._ Lady.

_Inf._ Ha!

_Duke._ Girl. Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?

_Inf._ I’m well--what makes this doctor here?--I’m well.

_Duke._ Thou wert not so even now, sickness’ pale hand Laid hold on thee even in the midst of feasting; And when a cup crowned with thy lover’s health Had touched thy lips, a sensible cold dew Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept To see such beauty alter.

_Inf._ I remember I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.

_Duke._ Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger Came wildly in, with this unsavory news, That he was dead?

_Inf._ What messenger? who’s dead?

_Duke._ Hippolito. Alack! wring not thy hands.

_Inf._ I saw no messenger, heard no such news.

_Doct._ Trust me you did, sweet lady.

_Duke._ La, you now!

_1st Ser._ Yes, indeed, madam.

_Duke._ La, you now.--’Tis well, good knaves!

_Inf._ You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me.

_Duke._ Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself, Of this the bad report before did strike So coldly to thy heart, that the swift currents Of life were all frozen up----

_Inf._ It is untrue, ’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father!

_Duke._ And we had much to do by art’s best cunning, To fetch life back again.

_Doct._ Most certain, lady.

_Duke._ Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me. Friends, Swear we not all? had we not much to do?

_Servants._ Yes, indeed, my lord, much.

_Duke._ Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face, That were Hippolito alive again, I’d kneel and woo the noble gentleman To be thy husband: now I sore repent My sharpness to him, and his family; Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die-- Doctor, this place where she so oft hath seen His lively presence, hurts her, does it not?

_Doct._ Doubtless, my lord, it does.

_Duke._ It does, it does: Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.

_Inf._ Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.

_Duke._ A coach is ready, Bergamo doth stand In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer, Ay, thou shalt hunt and send us venison, Which like some goddess in the Cyprian groves, Thine own fair hand shall strike;--Sirs, you shall teach her To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt: Cast off this sorrow. In, girl, and prepare This night to ride away to Bergamo.

_Inf._ O most unhappy maid! [_Exit._

_Duke._ Follow her close. No words that she was buried, on your lives! Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead; I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.

_1st Ser._ I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.

_2nd Ser._ And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.

_Duke._ Away, look to her.--[_Exeunt ~Servants~._]--Doctor Benedict, Did you observe how her complexion altered Upon his name and death? Oh, would t’were true.

_Doct._ It may, my lord.

_Duke._ May! how? I wish his death.

_Doct._ And you may have your wish; say but the word, And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave: I have good knowledge with Hippolito; He calls me friend, I’ll creep into his bosom, And sting him there to death; poison can do’t.

_Duke._ Perform it; I’ll create thee half mine heir.

_Doct._ It shall be done, although the fact be foul.

_Duke._ Greatness hides sin, the guilt upon my soul! [_Exeunt._