Act 5 — THE JEW OF MALTA

Albeit the world think Machiavel is dead, Yet was his soul but flown beyond the Alps, And, now the Guise[466] is dead, is come from France To view this land and frolic with his friends. To some perhaps my name is odious,5 But such as love me guard me from their tongues; And let them know that I am Machiavel, And weigh not men, and therefore not men’s words. Admir’d I am of those that hate me most. Though some speak openly against my books,10 Yet will they read me, and thereby attain To Peter’s chair; and when they cast me off, Are poison’d by my climbing followers. I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance.15 “Birds of the air will tell of murders past!” I am asham’d to hear such fooleries. Many will talk of title to a crown: What right had Cæsar to the empery?[467] Might first made kings, and laws were then most sure20 When, like the Draco’s, they were writ in blood. Hence comes it that a strong-built citadel Commands much more than letters can import; Which maxim had [but] Phalaris observ’d, He had never bellowed, in a brazen bull,25 Of great ones’ envy. O’ the poor petty wights Let me be envi’d and not pitied! But whither am I bound? I come not, I, To read a lecture here in Britain, But to present the tragedy of a Jew,30 Who smiles to see how full his bags are cramm’d, Which money was not got without my means. I crave but this—grace him as he deserves, And let him not be entertain’d the worse Because he favours me. 35 [Exit.]