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. Fran. de Med. So, 'twas well fitted: now shall we discern How his wished absence will give violent way To Duke Brachiano's lust. Mont. Why, that was it; To what scorned purpose else should we make choice Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides, Count Lodowick, which was rumoured for a pirate, Is now in Padua. Fran. de Med. 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. de Med. O, '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 deathless 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 wronged, durst not avenge himself. Fran. de Med. Come, to observe this strumpet. Mont. Curse of greatness! Sure he'll not leave her? Fran. de Med. There's small pity in't: Like misletoe on sear elms spent by weather, Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Room in the House of Camillo.
Enter Brachiano, with a Conjurer.
Brach. Now, sir, I claim your promise: 'tis dead midnight, The time prefixed to show me, by your art, How the intended murder of Camillo And our loathed duchess grow to action. Con. You have won me by your bounty to a deed I do not often practise. Some there are Which by sophistic tricks aspire that name, Which I would gladly lose, of necromancer; As some that use to juggle upon cards, Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat; Others that raise up their confederate spirits 'Bout wind-mills, and endanger their own necks For making of a squib; and some there are Will keep a curtal[42] to show juggling tricks, And give out 'tis a spirit: besides these, Such a whole realm of almanac-makers, figure-flingers, Fellows, indeed, that only live by stealth, Since they do merely lie about stol'n goods, They'd make men think the devil were fast and loose, With speaking fustian Latin. Pray, sit down: Put on this night-cap, sir, 'tis charmed; and now I'll show you, by my strong commanding art, The circumstance that breaks your duchess' heart.
A Dumb Show.
Enter suspiciously Julio and Christophero: they draw a curtain where Brachiano's picture is, put on spectacles of glass, which cover their eyes and noses, and then burn perfumes before the picture, and wash the lips; that done, quenching the fire, and putting off their spectacles, they depart laughing.
Enter Isabella in her night-gown, as to bed-ward, with lights after her, Count Lodovico, Giovanni, Guidantonio, and others waiting on her: she kneels down as to prayers, then draws the curtain of the picture, does three reverences to it, and kisses it thrice; she faints, and will not suffer them to come near it; dies: sorrow expressed in Giovanni and Count Lodovico: she is conveyed out solemnly.
Brach. Excellent! then she's dead. Con. She's poisonèd By the fumed picture. 'Twas her custom nightly, Before she went to bed, to go and visit Your picture, and to feed her eyes and lips On the dead shadow.
