Webster & Tourneur. John Webster

diamonds, Shall prove but glassen hammers—they shall break. These are but feignèd shadows of my evils: Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils; I am past such needless palsy. For your names Of whore and murderess, they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind; The filth returns in's face. Mont. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question: Who lodged beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband brake his neck? Brach. That question Enforceth me break silence: I was there. Mont. Your business? Brach. Why, I came to comfort her, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you, my lord. Mont. He was. Brach. And 'twas strangely feared That you would cozen[51] her. Mont. Who made you overseer? Brach. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and noble spirit To orphans and to widows. Mont. Your lust. Brach. Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest, I'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper I'll sheathe in your own bowels. There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common post-boys. Mont. Ha! Brach. Your mercenary post-boys: Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies. Serv. My lord, your gown. Brach. Thou liest, 'twas my stool: Bestow't upon thy master, that will challenge The rest o' the household-stuff; for Brachiano Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool Out of another's lodging: let him make Vallance for his bed on't, or a demi-foot-cloth For his most reverent moil.[52] Monticelso, Nemo me impune lacessit. [Exit. Mont. Your champion's gone. Vit. Cor. The wolf may prey the better. Fran. de Med. My lord, there's great suspicion of the murder, But no sound proof who did it. For my part, I do not think she hath a soul so black To act a deed so bloody: if she have, As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines, And with warm blood manure them, even so One summer she will bear unsavoury fruit, And ere next spring wither both branch and root. The act of blood let pass; only descend To matter of incontinence. Vit. Cor. I discern poison Under your gilded pills. Mont. Now the duke's gone, I will produce a letter, Wherein 'twas plotted he and you should meet At an apothecary's summer-house, Down by the river Tiber—view't, my lords— Where, after wanton bathing and the heat Of a lascivious banquet—I pray read it, I shame to speak the rest. Vit. Cor. Grant I was tempted; Temptation to lust proves not the act: Casta est quam nemo rogavit.[53] You read his hot love to me, but you want My frosty answer. Mont. Frost i' the dog-days! strange! Vit. Cor. Condemn you me for that the duke did love me! So may you blame some fair and crystal river For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drowned himself in't. Mont. Truly drowned, indeed. Vit. Cor. Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find, That beauty, and gay clothes, a merry heart, And a good stomach to a feast, are all, All the poor crimes that you can charge me with. In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies; The sport would be more noble. Mont. Very good. Vit. Cor. But take you your course: it seems you have beggared me first, And now would fain undo me. I have houses, Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes:[54] Would those would make you charitable! Mont. If the devil Did ever take good shape, behold his picture. Vit. Cor. You have one virtue left— You will not flatter me. Fran. de Med. Who brought this letter? Vit. Cor. I am not compelled to tell you. Mont. My lord duke sent to you a thousand ducats The twelfth of August. Vit. Cor. 'Twas to keep your cousin From prison: I paid use for't. Mont. I rather think 'Twas interest for his lust. Vit. Cor. Who says so But yourself? if you be my accuser, Pray, cease to be my judge: come from the bench; Give in your evidence 'gainst me, and let these Be moderators. My lord cardinal, Were your intelligencing ears as loving As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue, I would not care though you proclaimed them all. Mont. Go to, go to. After your goodly and vain-glorious banquet, I'll give you a choke-pear. Vit. Cor. O' your own grafting? Mont. You were born in Venice, honourably descended From the Vittelli: 'twas my cousin's fate— Ill may I name the hour—to marry you: He bought you of your father. Vit. Cor. Ha! Mont. He spent there in six months Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my acquaintance) Received in dowry with you not one julio:[55] 'Twas a hard pennyworth, the ware being so light. I yet but draw the curtain now to your picture: You came from thence a most notorious strumpet, And so you have continued. Vit. Cor. My lord— Mont. Nay, hear me; You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano— Alas, I make but repetition Of what is ordinary and Rialto talk, And ballated, and would be played o' the stage, But that vice many times finds such loud friends That preachers are charmed silent.— You gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello, The court hath nothing now to charge you with Only you must remain upon your sureties For your appearance. Fran. de Med. I stand for Marcello. Flam. And my lord duke for me. Mont. For you, Vittoria, your public fault, Joined to the condition of the present time, Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity; Such a corrupted trial have you made Both of your life and beauty, and been styled No less an ominous fate than blazing stars To princes: here's your sentence; you are confined Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd— Flam. [Aside]. Who, I? Mont. The Moor. Flam. [Aside]. O, I am a sound man again. Vit. Cor. A house of convertites! what's that? Mont. A house Of penitent whores. Vit. Cor. Do the noblemen in Rome Erect it for their wives, that I am sent To lodge there? Fran. de Med. You must have patience. Vit. Cor. I must first have vengeance. I fain would know if you have your salvation By patent, that you proceed thus. Mont. Away with her! Take her hence. Vit. Cor. A rape! a rape! Mont. How! Vit. Cor. Yes, you have ravished justice; Forced her to do your pleasure. Mont. Fie, she's mad! Vit. Cor. Die with these pills in your most cursèd maw Should bring you health! or while you sit o' the bench Let your own spittle choke you!— Mont. She's turned Fury. Vit. Cor. That the last day of judgment may so find you, And leave you the same devil you were before! Instruct me, some good horse-leech, to speak treason; For since you cannot take my life for deeds, Take it for words: O woman's poor revenge, Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep; No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear To fawn on your injustice; bear me hence Unto this house of—what's your mitigating title? Mont. Of convertites. Vit. Cor. It shall not be a house of convertites; My mind shall make it honester to me Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal. Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite, Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light.[56] [Exeunt Vittoria Corombona, Lawyer, and Guards.

      Re-enter Brachiano.

      Brach. Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands In a friend's grave together; a fit place, Being the emblem of soft peace, to atone our hatred. Fran. de Med. Sir, what's the matter? Brach. I will not chase more blood from that loved cheek; You have lost too much already: fare you well. [Exit.

      Fran. de Med. How strange these words sound! what's the interpretation?

      Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions. Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in't: I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman. [Exit.

      Enter Giovanni, Count Lodovico, and Attendant.

      Fran. de Med. How now, my noble cousin! what, in black! Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you In virtue, and you must imitate me In colours of your garments. My sweet mother Is— Fran. de Med. How! where? Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I'll not tell you, For I shall make you weep. Fran. de Med. Is dead? Giov. Do not blame me now, I did not tell you so. Lod. She's dead, my lord. Fran. de Med. Dead! Mont. Blessed lady, thou are now above thy woes!— Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little? [Exeunt Ambassadors. Giov. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat, Hear music, go a hunting, and be merry, As we that live? Fran. de Med. No, coz; they sleep. Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead! I have not slept these six