Piero. No.
Alberto. Please you to restore his lands and goods again?
Piero. No.
Alberto. Please you to vouchsafe him lodging in the city?
120 Piero. God’s fut, no, thou odd uncivil fellow:
I think you do forget, sir, where you are.
Alberto. I think you do forget, sir, where you must be.
Forobosco. You are too malapert, i’faith you are.
Your honour might do well to –
Alberto. Peace, parasite, thou burr, that only sticks
Unto the nap of greatness.
Piero. Away with that same yelping cur, away!
Alberto. Ay, I am but gone: but mark, Piero, this.
There is a thing called scourging nemesis. Exit Alberto.
130 Balurdo. God’s neaks he has wrong, that he has: and s’fut, and I were as he, I would bear no coals. la, I, – I begin to swell – puff!
Piero. How now fool, fop, fool?
Balurdo. Fool, fop, fool? Marry muff! I pray you, how many fools have you seen in a suit of satin? I hope yet, I do not look a fool i’faith: a fool? God’s bores, I scorn’t with my heel. ’Sneaks, and I were worth but three hundred pound a year more, I could swear richly: nay, but as poor as I am, I will swear the fellow hath wrong.
140 Piero. Young Galeatzo? Ay, a proper man.
Florence a goodly city: it shall be so.
I’ll marry her to him instantly.
Then Genoa mine, by my Maria’s match,
Which I’ll solemnize ere next setting sun.
Thus Venice, Florence, Genoa, strongly leagued.
Excellent, excellent! I’ll conquer Rome,
Pop out the light of bright religion;
And then, helter skelter, all cocksure!
Balurdo. Go to, ’tis just, the man hath wrong: go to.
150 Piero. Go to, thou shalt have right. Go to Castilio,
Clap him into the palace dungeon:
Lap him in rags, and let him feed on slime
That smears the dungeon’s cheek. Away with him!
Balurdo. In very good truth now, I’ll ne’er do so more; this one time and –
Piero. Away with him, observe it strictly, go.
Balurdo.Why then, O wight,
Alas poor knight.
O, welladay, Sir Geoffrey.
160 Let poets roar
And all deplore:
For now I bid you good night.
Exit Balurdo with Castilio. [Enter Maria.]
Maria. O, piteous end of love: O too, too rude hand
Of unrespective death! Alas, sweet maid!
Piero. Forbear me, heaven. What intend these plaints?
Maria. The beauty of admired creation,
The life of modest unmixed purity,
Our sex’s glory, Mellida is –
Piero. What, O heaven, what?
170 Maria. Dead.
Piero. May it not sad your thoughts, how?
Maria. Being laid upon her bed, she grasped my hand,
And kissing it, spake thus: ‘Thou very poor,
Why dost not weep? The jewel of thy brow,
The rich adornment that enlaced thy breast,
Is lost: thy son, my love is lost, is dead.
And do I live to say Antonio’s dead?
And have I lived to see his virtues blurred,
With guiltless blots? O world, thou art too subtle,
180 For honest natures to converse withal.
Therefore I’ll leave thee. Farewell, mart of woe,
I fly to clip my love Antonio.’
With that her head sunk down upon her breast,
Her cheek changed earth, her senses slept in rest:
Until my fool, that pressed unto the bed,
Screeched out so loud that he brought back her soul,
Called her again, that her bright eyes ’gan ope.
And stared upon him. He, audacious fool,
Dared kiss her hand, wished her soft rest, loved bride;
190 She fumbled out, ‘thanks good –’, and so she died.
Piero.And so she died. I do not use to weep:
But for thy love (out of whose fertile sweet,
I hope for as fair fruit), I am deep sad.
I will not stay my marriage for this.
Castilio, Forobosco, all
Strain your wits: wind up invention
Unto his highest bent, to sweet this night.
Make us drink lethe by thy quaint conceits,
That for two days oblivion smother grief.
200 But when my daughter’s exequies approach,
Let’s all turn sighers. Come, despite of fate,
Sound loudest music, let’s pass out in state.
The cornets sound. Exeunt.
Act 4
Scene 4
Enter Antonio solus, in fool’s habit.
Antonio. Ay heaven, thou mayst; thou mayest, omnipotence.
What vermin bred of putrefacted slime,
Shall dare to expostulate with thy decrees?
O heaven, thou mayst indeed: she was all thine,
All heavenly. I did but humbly beg
To borrow her of thee a little time.
Thou gavest her me, as some weak-breasted dame
Giveth her infant, puts it out to nurse;
And when it once goes high-lone, takes it back.
10 She was my vital blood, and yet and yet.
I’ll not blaspheme. look here and behold.
Antonio puts off his cap, and lieth just upon his back.
I turn my prostrate breast upon thy face.
And vent a heaving sigh. O hear but this.
I am a poor, poor orphan; a weak, weak child,
The wreck of splitted fortune, the very ooze,
The quicksand that devours all misery.
Behold the valiant’st creature that doth breathe!
For all this, I dare live, and I will live,
Only to numb some others’ cursed blood
20 With the dead palsy of like misery.
Then death, like to a stifling incubus,
Lie on my bosom. lo sir, I am sped.
My breast is Golgotha, grave for the dead.
Act 4
Scene 5
Enter Pandulpho, Alberto, and a page, carrying Feliche’s trunk in a winding-sheet, and lay it thwart Antonio’s breast.
Pandulpho. Antonio, kiss my foot: I honour thee
In laying thwart my blood upon thy breast.
I tell thee, boy: he was Pandulpho’s son:
And I do grace thee with supporting him,
Young man.
The domineering monarch of the earth,
He who hath naught that fortune’s grip can seize,
He who is all impregnably his own,
He whose great heart heaven cannot force with force
10 Vouchsafes his love. Non servio Deo, sed assentio.
Antonio. I ha’ lost a good wife.
Pandulpho.Did’st find her good, or did’st thou make her good?
If found, thou mayst refind, because thou had’st her.
If made, the work is lost, but thou that mad’st her
Liv’st yet as cunning. Hast lost a good wife?
Thrice-blessed man that lost her whilst she was good,
Fair, young, unblemished, constant, loving, chaste.
I tell thee, youth: age knows young loves seem graced
Which with grey cares, rude jars, are oft defaced.
20 Antonio. But she was full of hope.
Pandulpho. May be, may be: but that which may be, stood,
Stands now without all may; she died good.
And dost thou grieve?
Alberto. I ha’ lost a true friend.
Pandulpho. I live encompassed with two blessed souls.
Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a true friend, ha?
Two of the rarest lendings of the heavens,
But lendings, which at the fixed rate of pay
Set down by fate, thou must restore again.
30 O what unconscionable souls are here?
Are you all like the spokeshaves of the church?
Have you no maw to restitution?
Hast lost a true friend, coz? then thou had’st one.
I tell thee, youth: ’tis all as difficult
To find true friend in this apostate age
That baulks all right alliance ’twixt two hearts,
As ’tis to find a fixed modest heart,
Under a painted breast. lost a true friend?
O happy soul that lost him whilst he was true.
40 Believe me coz, I to my tears have found,
Oft dirt’s respect makes firmer friends unsound.
Alberto. You have lost a good son.
Pandulpho. Why there’s the comfort on’t, that he was good:
Alas, poor innocent –
Alberto.Why weeps mine uncle?
Pandulpho. Ha, dost ask me why? ha? hah?
Good coz, look here.
He shows him his son’s breast.
Man will break out, despite philosophy.
Why, all this while I ha’ but played a part,
50 Like to some boy, that acts a tragedy,
Speaks burly words, and raves out passion,
But, when he thinks upon his infant weakness,
He droops his eye. I spake more than a god;
Yet am less than a man.
I am the miserablest soul that breathes.
Antonio starts up.
Antonio. ’Slid sir, ye lie: by th’heart of grief, thou liest!
I scorn’t that any wretched should survive,
Outmounting me in that superlative,
Most miserable, most unmatched in woe.
60 Who dare assume that, but Antonio?
Pandulpho. Will’t still be so? and shall yon bloodhound live?
Antonio. Have I an arm, a heart, a sword, a soul?
Alberto. Were you but private unto what we know –
Pandulpho. I’ll know it all; first let’s inter the dead.
Let’s dig his grave, with that shall dig the heart,
Liver, and entrails of the murderer.
They strike the stage with their daggers, and the grave openeth.
Antonio. Will’t sing a dirge, boy?
Pandulpho. No, no song; ’twill be vile out of tune.
Alberto. Indeed he’s hoarse: the poor boy’s voice is cracked.
70 Pandulpho. Why coz, should it not be hoarse and cracked,
When all the strings of nature’s symphony
Are cracked, and jar? Why should his voice keep tune,
When there’s no music in the breast of man?
I’ll say an honest antique rhyme I have.
Help me, good sorrow-mates, to give him grave.
They all help to carry Feliche to his grave.
Death, exile, plaints, and woe,
Are but men’s lackeys, not his foe.
No mortal ’scapes from fortune’s war,
Without a wound, at least a scar.
80 Many have led these to the grave:
But all shall follow, none shall save.
Blood of my youth, rot and consume;
Virtue, in dirt, doth life assume.
With this old saw, close up this dust;
Thrice-blessed man that dieth just.
Antonio. The gloomy wing of night begins to stretch
His lazy pinion over all the air.
We must be stiff and steady in resolve:
Let’s thus our hands, our hearts, our arms involve.
They wreathe their arms.
90 Pandulpho. Now, swear we by this Gordian knot of love,
By the fresh turned-up mould that wraps my son,
By the dead brow of triple Hecate:
Ere night shall close the lids of yon bright stars,
We’ll sit as heavy on Piero’s heart.
As Etna doth on groaning Pelorus.
Antonio. Thanks, good old man.
We’ll cast at royal chance.
Let’s think a plot; then pellmell vengeance!
Exeunt, their arms wreathed.
Act 5
Scene 1
The cornets sound for the Act.
The dumbshow.
Enter as at one door, Castilio and Forobosco, with halberds: four pages with torches: lucio bare: Piero, Maria and Alberto talking: Alberto draws out his dagger, Maria her knife, aiming to menace the duke. Then Galeatzo betwixt two Senators, reading a paper to them: at which, they all make semblence of loathing Piero, and knit their fists at him; two ladies and Nutriche: all these go softly over the stage, whilst at the other door enters the ghost of Andrugio, who passeth by them, tossing his torch about his head in triumph.
All forsake the stage, saving Andrugio, who speaking, begins the Act.
Andrugio. Venit dies, tempusque, quo reddat suis
Animam squallentum sceleribus.
The first of strenuous vengeance is clutched,
And stern Vindicta towereth up aloft,
That she may fall with a more weighty peise,
And crush life’s sap from out Piero’s veins.
Now ’gins the leprous cores of ulcered sins
Wheal to a head; now is his fate grown mellow,
Instant to fall into the rotten jaws
10 Of chap-fallen death. Now down looks providence
T’attend the last act of my son’s revenge.
Be gracious, observation, to our scene.
For now the plot unites his scattered limbs
Close in contracted bands. The Florence prince,
Drawn by firm notice of the duke’s black deeds,
Is made a partner in conspiracy.
The states of Venice are so swollen in hate
Against the duke, for his accursed deeds –
Of which they are confirmed by some odd letters
20 Found in dead Strotzo’s study, which had passed
Betwixt Piero and the murdering slave –
That they can scarce retain from bursting forth
In plain revolt. O, now triumphs my ghost;
Exclaiming, heaven’s just! For I shall see
The scourge of murder and impiety. Exit.
Act 5
Scene 2
Balurdo from under the stage.
Balurdo. Ho, who’s there above, ho? A murrain on all proverbs. They say, hunger breaks through stone walls; but I am as gaunt as lean-ribbed famine, yet I can burst through no stone walls. O, now, Sir Geoffrey, show thy valour: break prison, and be hanged. Nor shall the darkest nook of hell contain the discontented Sir Balurdo’s ghost. Well, I am out well, I have put off the prison to put on the rope. O poor shotten herring, what a pickle art thou in! O hunger, how thou domineer’st in my guts! O, for a fat leg of ewe mutton in stewed broth; or
10 drunken song to feed on – I could belch rarely, for I am all wind. O cold, cold, cold, cold, cold! O poor knight, O poor Sir Geoffrey; sing like an unicorn, before thou dost dip thy horn in the water of death; O cold, O sing, O cold, O poor Sir Geoffrey, sing, sing.
[Song.]
Act 5
Scene 3
Enter Antonio and Alberto, at several doors, their rapiers drawn, in their masquing attire.
Antonio. Vindicta.
Alberto. Mellida.
Antonio. Alberto.
Alberto. Antonio.
Antonio. Hath the duke supped?
Alberto. Yes, and triumphant revels mount aloft.
The duke drinks deep to overflow his grief.
The court is racked to pleasure; each man strains
To feign a jocund eye. The Florentine –
10 Antonio. Young Galeatzo?
Alberto. Even he is mighty on our part. The states of Venice –
Enter Pandulpho, running, in masquing attire.
Pandulpho. like high-swollen floods, drive down the muddy dams
Of pent allegiance. O my lusty bloods
,
Heaven sits clapping of our enterprise.
I have been labouring general favour firm.
And I do find the citizens grown sick
With swallowing the bloody crudities
Of black Piero’s acts, they fain would cast
And vomit him from off their government.
20 Now is the plot of mischief ripped wide ope.
Letters are found ’twixt Strotzo and the duke,
So clear apparent, yet more firmly strong
By suiting circumstance, that as I walked
Muffled, to eavesdrop speech, I might observe
The graver statesmen whispering fearfully.
Here one gives nods and hums, what he would speak:
The rumour’s got ’mong troop of citizens,
Making loud murmur, with confused din:
One shakes his head, and sighs: ‘O ill-used power!’
30 Another frets and sets his grinding teeth,
Foaming with rage, and swears this must not be.
Here one complots, and on a sudden starts,
And cries: ‘O monstrous, o deep villainy!’
All knit their nerves, and from beneath swollen brows
Appears a gloating eye of much mislike:
Whilst swart Piero’s lips reek steam of wine,
Swallows lust-thoughts, devours all pleasing hopes,
With strong imagination of, what not?
O, now Vindicta; that’s the word we have:
40 A royal vengeance or a royal grave.
Antonio. Vindicta!
Balurdo. [Under the stage.] I am a-cold.
Pandulpho. Who’s there? Sir Geoffrey?
Balurdo. A poor knight, God wot: the nose of thy knighthood is bitten off with cold. O poor Sir Geoffrey, cold, cold.
Pandulpho. What chance of fortune hath tripped up his heels,
And laid him in the kennel? ha?
Alberto. I will discourse it all. Poor honest soul,
Hadst thou a beaver to clasp up thy face.
50 Thou shouldst associate us in masquery,
And see revenge.
Balurdo. Nay, and you talk of revenge, my stomach’s up, for I am most tyrannically hungry. A beaver? I have a headpiece, a skull, a brain of proof, I warrant ye.
Alberto. Slink to my chamber then, and tire thee.
Balurdo. Is there a fire?
Alberto. Yes.
Balurdo. Is there a fat leg of ewe mutton?
Alberto. Yes.
60 Balurdo. And a clean shirt?
Alberto. Yes.
Balurdo. Then am I for you, most pathetically and unvulgarly, la!
Exit.
Antonio. Resolved hearts, time curtails night, opportunity shakes his foretop. Steep your thoughts, sharp your resolve, embolden your spirit, grasp your swords, alarum mischief, and with an undaunted brow, out scout the grim opposition of most menacing peril.
Five Revenge Tragedies: The Spanish Tragedy, Hamlet, Antonio's Revenge, The Tragedy of Hoffman, The Revenger's Tragedy (Penguin Classics) Page 23