Webster & Tourneur. John Webster

Never. Isab. O my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy, As I upon a woful widowed 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 cursèd vow; I have some cause to do, 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 supposèd jealousy; And think with what a piteous and rent heart I shall perform this sad ensuing part.

      Re-enter Francisco de Medicis and Monticelso.

      Brach. Well, take your course.—My honourable brother! Fran. de Med. Sister!—This is not well, my lord.—Why, sister!— She merits not this welcome. Brach. Welcome, say! She hath given a sharp welcome. Fran. de Med. 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. de Med. 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 whore's triumph? Fran. de Med. Do you hear? Look upon other women, with what patience They suffer these slight wrongs, 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. de Med. What! turned Fury! Isab. To dig the 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. de Med. How, ne'er more lie with him! Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly kept As if in throngèd 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 alia mente repostum.[37] Fran. de Med. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad, And jealous woman. Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking. Fran. de Med. 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. O 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. de Med. To see her come To my lord cardinal for a dispensation Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter. Isab. Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break: Those are the killing griefs which dare not speak. [Exit.

      Re-enter Marcello with Camillo.

      Mar. Camillo's come, my lord.

      Fran. de Med. Where's the commission?

      Mar. 'Tis here.

      Fran. de Med. Give me the signet. [Francisco de Medicis, Monticelso, Camillo, and Marcello retire to the back of the stage.

      Flam. My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium:[38] 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.

      Brach. About the murder?

      Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I'll send him to Candy.

      Enter Doctor.

      Here's another property too.

      Brach. O, 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.

      Doc. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colourable 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 master-piece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin.

      Brach. O, Saint Anthony's fire.

      Doc. Your secretary is merry, my lord.

      Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature!—Look, his eye's bloodshed, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with.—Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable loathsome[39] 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 skill for us. Doc. 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' death— Doc. 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 gallowses are raised i' the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders. [Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, and Doctor.

      SCENE II.—The same.

      Francisco de Medicis, Monticelso, Camillo, and Marcello.

      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,[40] Inopem me copia fecit.[41] 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 report as that, my lord, Should keep within doors. Fran. de Med. Have you any children? Cam. None, my lord. Fran. de Med. You are the happier: I'll tell you a tale. Cam. Pray, my lord. Fran. de Med. An old tale. Upon a time Phœbus, the god of light, Or him we call the Sun, would needs 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 butterwomen, 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 bans. A great fat cook Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove That Phœbus 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 fire-works like their father? So say I; Only I will 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. Mar. I am much honoured 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' the nights; Then's the most danger. Fran. de Med. Farewell, good Marcello: All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish Bring you a-ship-board! Cam. Were I not best, now I am turned 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! o' the captain's humour right; I am resolvèd to be drunk this night. [Exeunt Camillo and Marcello.