Webster & Tourneur. John Webster
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Re-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 charged with any grievous sin? Isab. 'Tis burdened with too many; and I think, The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleeps 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 lovèd 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. O, your breath! Out upon sweet-meats and continued physic— The plague is in them! Isab. You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected cassia or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much withered. 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-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. I pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death Turn to your ancient pity, though not love. Brach. Because your brother is the corpulent duke, That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortly Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis, But it shall rest upon record! I scorn him Like a shaved Polack[36] all his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe; he's a discreet fellow When he is 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: accursèd be the priest That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue! Isab. O, too-too far you have cursed! 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 blessèd! 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 fixèd. 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. 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]