John Webster - The White Devil Act 2 Scene 1 lyrics

Enter Francisco de' Medici, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived? Isab. Not yet, sir. Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind; If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's, I would set fire on't were't but to destroy The polecats that haunt to it—My sweet cousin! Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse, And armour. Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin. Marcello, see it fitted. Marc. My lord, the duke is here. Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen. Isab. I do beseech you, Entreat him mildly, let not your rough tongue Set us at louder variance; all my wrongs Are freely pardon'd; and I do not doubt, As men to try the precious unicorn's horn Make of the powder a preservative circle, And in it put a spider, so these arms Shall charm his poison, force it to obeying, And keep him chaste from an infected straying. Fran. I wish it may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineo enter.] Void the chamber. You are welcome; will you sit?—I pray, my lord, Be you my orator, my heart's too full; I'll second you anon. Mont. Ere I begin, Let me entreat your grace forgo all pa**ion, Which may be raised by my free discourse. Brach. As silent as i'th'church: you may proceed. Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends, That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world With a free scepter in your able hand, And having to th'use of nature well applied High gifts of learning, should in your prime age Neglect your awful throne for the soft down Of an insatiate bed. O my lord, The drunkard after all his lavish cups Is dry, and then is sober; so at length, When you awake from this lascivious dream, Repentance then will follow, like the sting Plac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes When fortune blasteth but a petty flower Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth But one pearl from their scepter; but alas! When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame, All princely titles perish with their name. Brach. You have said, my lord—— Mont. Enough to give you taste How far I am from flattering your greatness. Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you? Do not like young hawks fetch a course about; Your game flies fair, and for you. Fran. Do not fear it: I'll answer you in your own hawking phrase. Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease, Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize. You know Vittoria? Brach. Yes. Fran. You shift your shirt there, When you retire from tennis? Brach. Happily. Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune, Yet she wears cloth of tissue. Brach. What of this? Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal, As part of her confession at next shrift, And know from whence it sails? Fran. She is your strumpet—— Brach. Uncivil sir, there's hemlock in thy breath, And that black slander. Were she a who*e of mine, All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers, Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates, Durst not supplant her. Fran. Let's not talk on thunder. Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given Both her white hands to d**h, bound and lock'd fast In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee But one. Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then. Fran. True: Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution, Shall ne'er do so by thee. Brach. Spit thy poison. Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle. Look to't, for our anger Is making thunderbolts. Brach. Thunder! in faith, They are but crackers. Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon. Brach. Thou'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds, And gunpowder in thy nostrils. Fran. Better that, Than change perfumes for plasters. Brach. Pity on thee! 'Twere good you'd show your slaves or men condemn'd, Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I'll meet thee, Even in a thicket of thy ablest men. Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further Without a milder limit. Fran. Willingly. Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait A lion thus? Mont. My lord! Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir. Fran. We send unto the duke for conference 'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke Is not at home: we come ourself in person; Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear When Tiber to each prowling pa**enger Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord— 'Bout moulting time I mean—we shall be certain To find you sure enough, and speak with you. Brach. Ha! Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle. But to express the sonnet by natural reason, [Enter Giovanni. When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season. Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion Shall end the difference between you both; Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords, What hopes you store in him; this is a casket For both your crowns, and should be held like dear. Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know It is a more direct and even way, To train to virtue those of princely blood, By examples than by precepts: if by examples, Whom should he rather strive to imitate Than his own father? be his pattern then, Leave him a stock of virtue that may last, Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast. Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier? Giov. Give me a pike. Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin? Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord, Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me, Might not a child of good discretion Be leader to an army? Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince Of good discretion might. Giov. Say you so? Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general Should not endanger his own person oft; So that he make a noise when he's a-horseback, Like a Danske drummer,—Oh, 'tis excellent!— He need not fight! methinks his horse as well Might lead an army for him. If I live, I'll charge the French foe in the very front Of all my troops, the foremost man. Fran. What! what! Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow, But bid them follow me. Brach. Forward lapwing! He flies with the shell on's head. Fran. Pretty cousin! Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war, All prisoners that I take, I will set free, Without their ransom. Fran. Ha! without their ransom! How then will you reward your soldiers, That took those prisoners for you? Giov. Thus, my lord: I'll marry them to all the wealthy widows That falls that year. Fran. Why then, the next year following, You'll have no men to go with you to war. Giov. Why then I'll press the women to the war, And then the men will follow. Mont. Witty prince! Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast. Come, you and I are friends. Brach. Most wishedly: Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set, Knit the more strongly. Fran. Call Camillo hither.— You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count Lodowick Is turn'd a pirate? Brach. Yes. Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess. We now will leave you, and expect from you Nothing but kind entreaty. Brach. You have charm'd me. [Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni. Enter Isabella] You are in health, we see. Isab. And above health, To see my lord well. Brach. So: I wonder much What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome. Isab. Devotion, my lord. Brach. Devotion! Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin? Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleep will be the sounder. Brach. Take your chamber. Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry! Doth not my absence from you, now two months, Merit one kiss? Brach. I do not use to kiss: If that will dispossess your jealousy, I 'll swear it to you. Isab. O, my loved lord, I do not come to chide: my jealousy! I am to learn what that Italian means. You are as welcome to these longing arms, As I to you a virgin. Brach. Oh, your breath! Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic, The plague is in them! Isab. You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected ca**ia, or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd. My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns Show in a helmet lovely; but on me, In such a peaceful interview, methinks They are too roughly knit. Brach. O dissemblance! Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt The trick of impudent baseness to complain Unto your kindred? Isab. Never, my dear lord. Brach. Must I be hunted out? or was't your trick To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome, That must supply our discontinuance? Isab. Pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my d**h Turn to your ancient pity, though not love. Brach. Because your brother is the corpulent duke, That is, the great duke, 'sd**h, I shall not shortly Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis, But it shall rest 'pon record! I scorn him Like a shav'd Polack: all his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe; he's a discreet fellow, When he 's made up in his robes of state. Your brother, the great duke, because h'as galleys, And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat, (Now all the hellish furies take his soul!) First made this match: accursed be the priest That sang the wedding-ma**, and even my issue! Isab. Oh, too, too far you have curs'd! Brach. Your hand I 'll kiss; This is the latest ceremony of my love. Henceforth I 'll never lie with thee; by this, This wedding-ring, I 'll ne'er more lie with thee! And this divorce shall be as truly kept, As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well: Our sleeps are severed. Isab. Forbid it the sweet union Of all things blessed! why, the saints in heaven Will knit their brows at that. Brach. Let not thy love Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied With my repentance: let thy brother rage Beyond a horrid tempest, or sea-fight, My vow is fixed. Isab. O, my winding-sheet! Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord, Let me hear once more, what I would not hear: Never? Brach. Never. Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy, As I upon a woeful widow'd bed Shall pray for you, if not to turn your eyes Upon your wretched wife and hopeful son, Yet that in time you'll fix them upon heaven! Brach. No more; go, go, complain to the great duke. Isab. No, my dear lord; you shall have present witness How I 'll work peace between you. I will make Myself the author of your cursed vow; I have some cause to do it, you have none. Conceal it, I beseech you, for the weal Of both your dukedoms, that you wrought the means Of such a separation: let the fault Remain with my supposed jealousy, And think with what a piteous and rent heart I shall perform this sad ensuing part. Enter Francisco, Flamineo, Monticelso, and Camillo Brach. Well, take your course.—My honourable brother! Fran. Sister!—This is not well, my lord.—Why, sister!—She merits not this welcome. Brach. Welcome, say! She hath given a sharp welcome. Fran. Are you foolish? Come, dry your tears: is this a modest course To better what is naught, to rail and weep? Grow to a reconcilement, or, by heaven, I 'll ne'er more deal between you. Isab. Sir, you shall not; No, though Vittoria, upon that condition, Would become honest. Fran. Was your husband loud Since we departed? Isab. By my life, sir, no, I swear by that I do not care to lose. Are all these ruins of my former beauty Laid out for a who*e's triumph? Fran. Do you hear? Look upon other women, with what patience They suffer these slight wrongs, and with what justice They study to requite them: take that course. Isab. O that I were a man, or that I had power To execute my apprehended wishes! I would whip some with scorpions. Fran. What! turn'd fury! Isab. To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her lie Some twenty months a-dying; to cut off Her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth; Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophies Of my just anger! Hell, to my affliction, Is mere snow-water. By your favour, sir;— Brother, draw near, and my lord cardinal;— Sir, let me borrow of you but one kiss; Henceforth I 'll never lie with you, by this, This wedding-ring. Fran. How, ne'er more lie with him! Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly kept As if in thronged court a thousand ears Had heard it, and a thousand lawyers' hands Sealed to the separation. Brach. Ne'er lie with me! Isab. Let not my former dotage Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never on my soul be satisfied With my repentance: manet alta mente repostum. Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad, And jealous woman. Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking. Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn, You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee, For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow And take your chamber. Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua; I will not stay a minute. Mont. Oh, good madam! Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour; Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach, And then she 'll turn in post. Fran. To see her come To my lord for a dispensation Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter. Isab. 'Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break: Those are the k**ing griefs, which dare not speak.' [Exit. Marc. Camillo's come, my lord. Enter Camillo Fran. Where 's the commission? Marc. 'Tis here. Fran. Give me the signet. Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning. Enter Doctor Brach. About the murder? Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy. Here 's another property too. Brach. Oh, the doctor! Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus. Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colorable execution. Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin. Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire! Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord. Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples! Brach. No more.—I must employ thee, honest doctor: You must to Padua, and by the way, Use some of your sk** for us. Doctor. Sir, I shall. Brach. But for Camillo? Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain, Men shall suppose him by 's own engine slain. But for your duchess' d**h—— Doctor. I 'll make her sure. Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure. Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, they rise as gallows in the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders. [Exeunt. Monticelso, Camillo, and Francisco come forward. Mont. Here is an emblem, nephew, pray peruse it: 'Twas thrown in at your window. Cam. At my window! Here is a stag, my lord, hath shed his horns, And, for the loss of them, the poor beast weeps: The word, Inopem me copia fecit. Mont. That is, Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns. Cam. What should this mean? Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given out You are a cuckold. Cam. Is it given out so? I had rather such reports as that, my lord, Should keep within doors. Fran. Have you any children? Cam. None, my lord. Fran. You are the happier: I 'll tell you a tale. Cam. Pray, my lord. Fran. An old tale. Upon a time Phbus, the god of light, Or him we call the sun, would need to be married: The gods gave their consent, and Mercury Was sent to voice it to the general world. But what a piteous cry there straight arose Amongst smiths and felt-makers, brewers and cooks, Reapers and bu*ter-women, amongst fishmongers, And thousand other trades, which are annoyed By his excessive heat! 'twas lamentable. They came to Jupiter all in a sweat, And do forbid the banns. A great fat cook Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove That Phbus might be gelded; for if now, When there was but one sun, so many men Were like to perish by his violent heat, What should they do if he were married, And should beget more, and those children Make fireworks like their father? So say I; Only I apply it to your wife; Her issue, should not providence prevent it, Would make both nature, time, and man repent it. Mont. Look you, cousin, Go, change the air for shame; see if your absence Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello Is chosen with you joint commissioner, For the relieving our Italian coast From pirates. Marc. I am much honour'd in 't. Cam. But, sir, Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sprouted Greater than those are shed. Mont. Do not fear it; I 'll be your ranger. Cam. You must watch i' th' nights; Then 's the most danger. Fran. Farewell, good Marcello: All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish Bring you a-shipboard. Cam. Were I not best, now I am turn'd soldier, Ere that I leave my wife, sell all she hath, And then take leave of her? Mont. I expect good from you, Your parting is so merry. Cam. Merry, my lord! a' th' captain's humour right, I am resolved to be drunk this night. [Exeunt. Fran. So, 'twas well fitted; now shall we discern How his wish'd absence will give violent way To Duke Brachiano's lust. Mont. Why, that was it; To what scorn'd purpose else should we make choice Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides, Count Lodowick, which was rumour'd for a pirate, Is now in Padua. Fran. Is 't true? Mont. Most certain. I have letters from him, which are suppliant To work his quick repeal from banishment: He means to address himself for pension Unto our sister duchess. Fran. Oh, 'twas well! We shall not want his absence past six days: I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run Into notorious scandal; for there 's naught In such cursed dotage, to repair his name, Only the deep sense of some d**hless shame. Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer, For my revenge I 'd stake a brother's life, That being wrong'd, durst not avenge himself. Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet. Mont. Curse of greatness! Sure he 'll not leave her? Fran. There 's small pity in 't: Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather, Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.