SCENE III._--The Lists at Padua.

_Charges and shouts. They fight at barriers; first single pairs, then three to three._

_Enter_ BRACHIANO, VITTORIA COROMBONA, GIOVANNI, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _with others._

_Brach._ An armorer! ud's death, an armorer!

_Flam._ Armorer! where's the armorer?

_Brach._ Tear off my beaver.

_Flam._ Are you hurt, my lord?

_Brach._ O, my brain's on fire!

_Enter_ Armorer.

The helmet is poisoned.

_Armorer._ My lord, upon my soul,--

_Brach._ Away with him to torture! There are some great ones that have hand in this, And near about me.

_Vit. Cor._ O my loved lord! poisoned!

_Flam._ Remove the bar. Here's unfortunate revels! Call the physicians.

_Enter two_ Physicians.

A plague upon you! We have too much of your cunning here already: I fear the ambassadors are likewise poisoned.

_Brach._ O, I am gone already! the infection Flies to the brain and heart. O thou strong heart! There's such a covenant 'tween the world and it, They're loth to break.

_Giov._ O my most lovèd father!

_Brach._ Remove the boy away.-- Where's this good woman?--Had I infinite worlds, They were too little for thee: must I leave thee?-- What say you, screech-owls, is the venom mortal?

_1st Phys._ Most deadly.

_Brach._ Most corrupted politic hangman, You kill without book; but your art to save Fails you as oft as great men's needy friends. I that have given life to offending slaves And wretched murderers, have I not power To lengthen mine own a twelvemonth?-- Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee. This unction's sent from the great Duke of Florence.

_Fran. de Med._ Sir, be of comfort.

_Brach._ O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin To sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded comet Stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl Beats not against thy casement; the hoarse wolf Scents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes.

_Vit. Cor._ I am lost for ever.

_Brach._ How miserable a thing it is to die Mongst women howling!

_Enter_ LODOVICO _and_ GASPARO, _in the habit of_ Capuchins.

What are those?

_Flam._ Franciscans: They have brought the extreme unction.

_Brach._ On pain of death, let no man name death to me: It is a word infinitely terrible. Withdraw into our cabinet. [_Exeunt all except_ FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS _and_ FLAMINEO.

_Flam._ To see what solitariness is about dying princes! as heretofore they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made great houses unhospitable, so now, O justice! where are their flatterers now? flatterers are but the shadows of princes' bodies; the least thick cloud makes them invisible.

_Fran. de Med._ There's great moan made for him.

_Flam._ Faith, for some few hours salt-water will run most plentifully in every office o' the court: but, believe it, most of them do but weep over their stepmothers' graves.

_Fran. de Med._ How mean you?

_Flam._ Why, they dissemble; as some men do that live within compass o' the verge.

_Fran. de Med._ Come, you have thrived well under him.

_Flam._ Faith, like a wolf in a woman's breast;[81] I have been fed with poultry: but, for money, understand me, I had as good a will to cozen him as e'er an officer of them all; but I had not cunning enough to do it.

_Fran. de Med._ What didst thou think of him? faith, speak freely.

_Flam._ He was a kind of statesman that would sooner have reckoned how many cannon-bullets he had discharged against a town, to count his expence that way, than how many of his valiant and deserving subjects he lost before it.

_Fran. de Med._ O, speak well of the duke.

_Flam._ I have done. Wilt hear some of my court-wisdom? To reprehend princes is dangerous; and to over-commend some of them is palpable lying.

_Re-enter_ LODOVICO.

_Fran. de Med._ How is it with the duke?

_Lod._ Most deadly ill. He's fall'n into a strange distraction: He talks of battles and monopolies, Levying of taxes; and from that descends To the most brain-sick language. His mind fastens On twenty several objects, which confound Deep sense with folly. Such a fearful end May teach some men that bear too lofty crest, Though they live happiest, yet they die not best. He hath conferred the whole state of the dukedom Upon your sister, till the prince arrive At mature age.

_Flam._ There's some good luck in that yet.

_Fran. de Med._ See, here he comes.

_Enter_ BRACHIANO, _presented in a bed,_[82] VITTORIA COROMBONA, GASPARO, _and_ Attendants.

There's death in's face already.

_Vit. Cor._ O my good lord!

_Brach._ Away! you have abused me: [_These speeches are several kinds of distractions, and in the action should appear so._ You have conveyed coin forth our territories; Bought and sold offices, oppressed the poor, And I ne'er dreamt on't. Make up your accounts: I'll now be mine own steward.

_Flam._ Sir, have patience.

_Brach._ Indeed, I am to blame: For did you ever hear the dusky raven Chide blackness? or was't ever known the devil Railed against cloven creatures?

_Vit. Cor._ O my lord!

_Brach._ Let me have some quails to supper.

_Flam._ Sir, you shall.

_Brach._ No, some fried dog-fish; your quails feed on poison. That old dog-fox, that politician, Florence! I'll forswear hunting, and turn dog-killer: Rare! I'll be friends with him; for, mark you, sir, one dog Still sets another a-barking. Peace, peace! Yonder's a fine slave come in now.

_Flam._ Where?

_Brach._ Why, there, In a blue bonnet, and a pair of breeches With a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha! Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins, With pearls o' the head of them. Do not you know him?

_Flam._ No, my lord.

_Brach._ Why, 'tis the devil; I know him by a great rose[83] he wears on's shoe, To hide his cloven foot. I'll dispute with him; He's a rare linguist.

_Vit. Cor._ My lord, here's nothing.

_Brach._ Nothing! rare! nothing! when I want money, Our treasury is empty, there is nothing: I'll not be used thus.

_Vit. Cor._ O, lie still, my lord!

_Brach._ See, see Flamineo, that killed his brother, Is dancing on the ropes there, and he carries A money-bag in each hand, to keep him even, For fear of breaking's neck: and there's a lawyer, In a gown whipt with velvet, stares and gapes When the money will fall. How the rogue cuts capers! It should have been in a halter. 'Tis there: what's she?

_Flam._ Vittoria, my lord.

_Brach._ Ha, ha, ha! her hair is sprinkled with arras-powder,[84] That makes her look as if she had sinned in the pastry,-- What's he?

_Flam._ A divine, my lord.

[BRACHIANO _seems here near his end:_ LODOVICO _and_ GASPARO, _in the habit of_ Capuchins, _present him in his bed with a crucifix and hallowed candle._

_Brach._ He will be drunk; avoid him: the argument Is fearful, when churchmen stagger in't. Look you, six grey rats, that have lost their tails, Crawl up the pillow: send for a rat-catcher: I'll do a miracle, I'll free the court From all foul vermin. Where's Flamineo?

_Flam._ I do not like that he names me so often, Especially on's death-bed: 'tis a sign [_Aside._ I shall not live long.--See, he's near his end.

_Lod._ Pray, give us leave.--_Attende, domine Brachiane._

_Flam._ See, see how firmly he doth fix his eye Upon the crucifix.

_Vit. Cor._ O, hold it constant! It settles his wild spirits; and so his eyes Melt into tears.

_Lod. Domine Brachiane, solebas in bello tutus esse tuo clypeo; nunc hunc clypeum hosti tuo opponas infernali._ [_By the crucifix._

_Gas. Olim hasta valuisti in bello; nunc hanc sacrum hastam vibrabis contra hostem animarum._ [_By the hallowed taper._

_Lod. Attende, domine Brachiane; si nunc quoque probas ea quæ acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in dextrum._

_Gas. Esto securus, domine Brachiane; cogita quantum habeas meritorum; denique memineris meam animam pro tuâ oppignoratam si quid esset periculi._

_Lod. Si nunc quoque probas ea quæ acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in lævum.--_ He is departing: pray, stand all apart, And let us only whisper in his ears Some private meditations, which our order Permits you not to hear.

[_Here, the rest being departed_, LODOVICO _and_ GASPARO _discover themselves._

_Gas._ Brachiano,--

_Lod._ Devil Brachiano, thou art damned.

_Gas._ Perpetually.

_Lod._ A slave condemned and given up to the gallows Is thy great lord and master.

_Gas._ True; for thou Art given up to the devil.

_Lod._ O you slave! You that were held the famous politician, Whose art was poison!

_Gas._ And whose conscience, murder!

_Lod._ That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs, Ere she was poisoned!

_Gas._ That had your villanous salads!

_Lod._ And fine embroidered bottles and perfumes, Equally mortal with a winter-plague!

_Gas._ Now there's mercury--

_Lod._ And copperas--

_Gas._ And quicksilver--

_Lod._ With other devilish pothecary stuff, A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear?

_Gas._ This is Count Lodovico.

_Lod._ This, Gasparo: And thou shalt die like a poor rogue.

_Gas._ And stink Like a dead fly-blown dog.

_Lod._ And be forgotten Before thy funeral sermon.

_Brach._ Vittoria! Vittoria!

_Lod_, O, the cursèd devil Comes to himself again! we are undone.

_Gas._ Strangle him in private.

_Enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _and_ Attendants.

What, will you call him again To live in treble torments? for charity, For Christian charity, avoid the chamber. [_Exeunt_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _and_ Attendants.

_Lod._ You would prate, sir? This is a true-love-knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. [_He strangles_ BRACHIANO.

_Gas._ What, is it done?

_Lod._ The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' the world, Though she had practised seven year at the pest-house, Could have done't quaintlier.

_Re-enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, FRANCISCO DE MEDICIS, FLAMINEO, _and_ Attendants.

My lords, he's dead.

_Omnes._ Rest to his soul!

_Vit. Cor._ O me! this place is hell. [_Exit._

_Fran. de Med._ How heavily she takes it!

_Flam._ O, yes, yes; Had women navigable rivers in their eyes, They would dispend them all: surely, I wonder Why we should wish more rivers to the city, When they sell water so good cheap. I'll tell thee, These are but moonish shades of griefs or fears; There's nothing sooner dry than women's tears. Why, here's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing. Court promises! let wise men count them cursed, For while you live, he that scores best pays worst.

_Fran. de Med._ Sure, this was Florence' doing.

_Flam._ Very likely. Those are found weighty strokes which come from the hand, But those are killing strokes which come from the head. O, the rare tricks of a Machiavelian! He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave, And buffet you to death: no, my quaint knave, He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing, As if you had swallowed down a pound of saffron. You see the feat, 'tis practised in a trice; To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice.

_Fran. de Med._ Now have the people liberty to talk, And descant on his vices.

_Flam._ Misery of princes, That must of force be censured by their slaves! Not only blamed for doing things are ill, But for not doing all that all men will: One were better be a thresher. Ud's death, I would fain speak with this duke yet.

_Fran. de Med._ Now he's dead?

_Flam._ I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths Will get to the speech of him, though forty devils Wait on him in his livery of flames, I'll speak to him, and shake him by the hand, Though I be blasted. [_Exit._

_Fran. de Med._ Excellent Lodovico! What, did you terrify him at the last gasp?

_Lod._ Yes, and so idly, that the duke had like To have terrified us.

_Fran. de Med._ How?

_Lod._ You shall hear that hereafter.

_Enter_ ZANCHE.

See, yon's the infernal that would make up sport. Now to the revelation of that secret She promised when she fell in love with you.

_Fran. de Med._ You're passionately met in this sad world.

_Zanche._ I would have you look up, sir; these court-tears Claim not your tribute to them: let those weep That guiltily partake in the sad cause. I knew last night, by a sad dream I had, Some mischief would ensue; yet, to say truth, My dream most concerned you.

_Lod._ Shall's fall a-dreaming?

_Fran. de Med._ Yes; and for fashion sake I'll dream with her.

_Zanche._ Methought, sir, you came stealing to my bed.

_Fran. de Med._ Wilt thou believe me, sweeting? by this light, I was a-dreamt on thee too; for methought I saw thee naked.

_Zanche._ Fie, sir! As I told you, Methought you lay down by me.

_Fran. de Med._ So dreamt I; And lest thou shouldst take cold, I covered thee With this Irish mantle.

_Zanche._ Verily, I did dream You were somewhat bold with me: but to come to't--

_Lod._ How, how! I hope you will not go to't here.

_Fran. de Med._ Nay, you must hear my dream out.

_Zanche._ Well, sir, forth.

_Fran. de Med._ When I threw the mantle o'er thee, thou didst laugh Exceedingly, methought.

_Zanche._ Laugh!

_Fran. de Med._ And cried'st out, The hair did tickle thee.

_Zanche._ There was a dream indeed!

_Lod._ Mark her, I prithee; she simpers like the suds A collier hath been washed in.

_Zanche._ Come, sir, good fortune tends you. I did tell you I would reveal a secret: Isabella, The Duke of Florence' sister, was impoisoned By a fumed picture; and Camillo's neck Was broke by damned Flamineo, the mischance Laid on a vaulting-horse.

_Fran. de Med._ Most strange!

_Zanche._ Most true.

_Lod._ The bed of snakes is broke.

_Zanche._ I sadly do confess I had a hand In the black deed.

_Fran. de Med._ Thou kept'st their counsel?

_Zanche._ Right; For which, urged with contrition, I intend This night to rob Vittoria.

_Lod._ Excellent penitence! Usurers dream on't while they sleep out sermons.

_Zanche._ To further our escape, I have entreated Leave to retire me, till the funeral, Unto a friend i' the country: that excuse Will further our escape. In coin and jewels I shall at least make good unto your use An hundred thousand crowns.

_Fran. de Med._ O noble wench!

_Lod._ Those crowns we'll share.

_Zanche._ It is a dowry, Methinks, should make that sun-burnt proverb false, And wash the Æthiop white.

_Fran. de Med._ It shall. Away!

_Zanche._ Be ready for our flight.

_Fran. de Med._ An hour 'fore day. [_Exit_ ZANCHE. O strange discovery! why, till now we knew not The circumstance of either of their deaths.

_Re-enter_ ZANCHE.

_Zanche._ You'll wait about midnight in the chapel?

_Fran. de Med._ There. [_Exit_ ZANCHE.

_Lod._ Why, now our action's justified.

_Fran. de Med._ Tush for justice! What harms it justice? we now, like the partridge, Purge the disease with laurel;[85] for the fame Shall crown the enterprize, and quit the shame. [_Exeunt._