ACT I.

Ant. Heart, wilt not break? and thou abhorrèd life, Wilt thou still breathe in my enragèd blood? Veins, sinews, arteries, why crack ye not, Burst and divulst with anguish of my grief? Can man by no means creep out of himself, And leave the slough of viperous grief behind? Antonio, hast thou seen a fight at sea, As horrid as the hideous day of doom, Betwixt thy father, Duke of Genoa, And proud Piero, the Venetian Prince: 10 In which the sea hath swoln with Genoa’s blood, And made spring-tides with the warm reeking gore, That gush’d from out our galleys’ scupper-holes? In which thy father, poor Andrugio, Lies sunk, or leap’d into the arms of chance, Choked with the labouring ocean’s brackish foam; Who, even despite Piero’s canker’d hate, Would with an armèd hand have seized thy love, And link’d thee to the beauteous Mellida. Have I outlived the death of all these hopes? 20 Have I felt anguish pour’d into my heart, Burning like balsamum in tender wounds! And yet dost live! Could not the fretting sea Have roll’d me up in wrinkles of his brow? Is death grown coy, or grim confusion nice, That it will not accompany a wretch, But I must needs be cast on Venice’ shore, And try new fortunes with this strange disguise To purchase my adorèd Mellida?

Hark how Piero’s triumphs beat the air! 30 O, rugged mischief, how thou grat’st my heart!— Take spirit, blood; disguise, be confident; Make a firm stand; here rests the hope of all: Lower than hell, there is no depth to fall.

Pier. Victorious Fortune, with triumphant hand, Hurleth my glory ’bout this ball of earth, Whilst the Venetian Duke is heavèd up On wings of fair success, to overlook The low-cast ruins of his enemies, To see myself adored and Genoa quake; 40 My fate is firmer than mischance can shake.

Feli. Stand; the ground trembleth.

Pier. Ha! an earthquake?

Bal. O! I smell a sound.

Feli. Piero, stay, for I descry a fume Creeping from out the bosom of the deep, The breath of darkness, fatal when ’tis wist In greatness’ stomach. This same smoke, call’d pride, Take heed: she’ll lift thee to improvidence, And break thy neck from steep security; 50 She’ll make thee grudge to let Jehovah share In thy successful battles. O! she’s ominous; Enticeth princes to devour heaven, Swallow omnipotence, out-stare dread fate, Subdue eternity in giant thought; Heaves[53] up their heart[54] with swelling, puff’d conceit, Till their souls burst with venom’d arrogance. Beware, Piero; Rome itself hath tried, Confusion’s train blows up this Babel pride.

Pier. Pish! Dimitto superos, summa votorum attigi.[55] 60 Alberto, hast thou yielded up our fix’d decree Unto the Genoan ambassador? Are they content, if that their Duke return, To send his and his son Antonio’s head, As pledges steep’d in blood, to gain their peace?

Alb. With most obsequious sleek-brow’d entertain, They all embrace it as most gracious.

Pier. Are proclamations sent through Italy, That whosoever brings Andrugio’s head, Or young Antonio’s, shall be guerdonèd 70 With twenty thousand double pistolets, And be endearèd to Piero’s love?

Foro. They are sent every way: sound policy, Sweet lord.

Feli. [Aside.] Confusion to these limber sycophants! No sooner mischiefs born in regency, But flattery christens it with policy.[56]

Pier. Why, then,—O me cœlitum excelsissimum! The intestine malice and inveterate hate I always bore to that Andrugio, 80 Glories in triumph o’er his misery; Nor shall that carpet-boy[57] Antonio Match with my daughter, sweet-cheek’d Mellida. No; the public power makes my faction strong.

Feli. Ill, when public power strength’neth private wrong.

Pier. ’Tis horse-like not for man to know his force.

Feli. ’Tis god-like for a man to feel remorse.[58]

Pier. Pish! I prosecute my family’s revenge, Which I’ll pursue with such a burning chase, Till I have dried up all Andrugio’s blood; 90 Weak rage, that with slight pity is withstood.—

What means that fresh triumphal flourish sound?

Alb. The prince of Milan, and young Florence’ heir, Approach to gratulate your victory.

Pier. We’ll girt them with an ample waste of love. Conduct them to our presence royally; Let vollies of the great artillery From off our galleys’ banks[59] play prodigal, And sound loud welcome from their bellowing mouths.

Mel. What prince was that passed through my father’s guard? 100

Fla. ’Twas Galeatzo, the young Florentine.

Ros. Troth, one that will besiege thy maidenhead; Enter the walls, i’faith (sweet Mellida), If that thy flankers be not cannon-proof.

Mel. O, Mary Ambree,[60] good, thy judgment, wench? Thy bright election’s clear:[61] what will he prove?

Ros. Hath a short finger and a naked chin, A skipping eye; dare lay my judgment (faith) His love is glibbery;[62] there’s no hold on’t, wench. Give me a husband whose aspect is firm; 110 A full-cheek’d gallant with a bouncing thigh: O, he is the Paradizo dell madonne contento.

Mel. Even such a one was my Antonio.

Ros. By my nine and thirtieth servant, sweet, Thou art in love; but stand on tiptoe,[63] fair; Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, i’faith.

Mel. St. Mark, St. Mark! what kind of thing appears?

Ros. For fancy’s passion, spit upon him! Fie, His face is varnish’d. In the name of love, What country bred that creature?

Mel. What is he, Flavia? 120

Fla. The heir of Milan, Signior Matzagente.

Ros. Matzagente! now, by my pleasure’s hope, He is made like a tilting-staff; and looks For all the world like an o’er-roasted pig: A great tobacco-taker too, that’s flat; For his eyes look as if they had been hung In the smoke of his nose.

Mel. What husband will he prove, sweet Rossaline?

Ros. Avoid him; for he hath a dwindled leg, A low forehead, and a thin coal-black beard; 130 And will be jealous too, believe it, sweet; For his chin sweats, and hath a gander neck, A thin lip, and a little monkish eye. ’Precious! what a slender waist he hath! He looks like a may-pole,[64] or a notched stick; He’ll snap in two at every little strain. Give me a husband that will fill mine arms, Of steady judgment, quick and nimble sense; Fools relish not a lady’s excellence.

Mel. The triumph’s ended; but look, Rossaline! 140 What gloomy soul in strange accustrements[65] Walks on the pavement?

Ros. Good sweet, let’s to her; prithee, Mellida.

Mel. How covetous thou art of novelties!

Ros. Pish! ’tis our nature to desire things That are thought strangers to the common cut.

Mel. I am exceeding willing, but——

Ros. But what? prithee, go down; let’s see her face: God send that neither wit nor beauty wants, Those tempting sweets, affection’s adamants. 150

Ant. Come down: she comes like—O, no simile Is precious, choice, or elegant enough To illustrate her descent! Leap heart, she comes! She comes! smile heaven, and softest southern wind Kiss her cheek gently with perfumèd breath. She comes! creation’s purity, admir’d, Ador’d amazing rarity, she comes! O, now, Antonio, press thy spirit forth In following passion, knit thy senses close, Heap up thy powers, double all thy man. 160

She comes! O, how her eyes dart wonder on my heart! Mount blood! soul to my lips! taste Hebe’s cup: Stand firm on deck, when beauty’s close fight’s[66] up.

Mel. Lady, your strange habit doth beget Our pregnant thoughts, even great of much desire, To be acquaint with your condition.

Ros. Good, sweet lady, without more ceremonies, What country claims your birth? and, sweet, your name?

Ant. In hope your bounty will extend itself 170 In self-same nature of fair courtesy, I’ll shun all niceness; my name’s Florizell, My country Scythia; I am Amazon, Cast on this shore by fury of the sea.

Ros. Nay, faith, sweet creature, we’ll not veil our names. It pleas’d the font to dip me Rossaline; That lady bears the name of Mellida, The Duke of Venice’ daughter.

Ant. Madam, I am oblig’d to kiss your hand, By imposition of a now dead man. 180

Ros. Now, by my troth, I long, beyond all thought, To know the man; sweet beauty, deign his name.

Ant. Lady, the circumstance is tedious.

Ros. Troth, not a whit; good fair, let’s have it all: I love not, I, to have a jot left out, If the tale come from a loved orator.

Ant. Vouchsafe me, then, your hush’d observances.— Vehement in pursuit of strange novelties, After long travel through the Asian main, I shipp’d my hopeful thoughts for Brittany;[67] 190 Longing to view great Nature’s miracle, The glory of our sex, whose fame doth strike Remotest ears with adoration. Sailing some two months with inconstant winds, We view’d the glistering Venetian forts, To which we made: when lo! some three leagues off, We might descry a horrid spectacle; The issue of black fury strew’d the sea With tatter’d carcasses of splitted ships, Half sinking, burning, floating topsy-turvy. 200 Not far from these sad ruins of fell rage, We might behold a creature press the waves; Senseless he sprawl’d, all notch’d with gaping wounds. To him we made, and (short) we took him up; The first thing he spake was,—Mellida! And then he swooned.[68]

Mel. Ay me!

Ant. Why sigh you, fair?

Mel.[69] Nothing but little humours; good sweet, on.

Ant. His wounds being dress’d, and life recoverèd, We ’gan discourse; when lo! the sea grew mad, His bowels rumbling with wind-passion; 210 Straight swarthy darkness popp’d out Phœbus’ eye, And blurr’d the jocund face of bright-cheek’d day; Whilst crudled[70] fogs masked even darkness’ brow: Heaven bad’s good night, and the rocks groan’d At the intestine uproar of the main. Now gusty flaws strook up the very heels Of our mainmast, whilst the keen lightning shot Through the black bowels of the quaking air; Straight chops a wave, and in his sliftred[71] paunch Down falls our ship, and there he breaks his neck; 220 Which in an instant up was belkt again. When thus this martyr’d soul began to sigh: “Give me your hand (quoth he): now do you grasp Th’ unequall’d[72] mirror of ragg’d misery: Is’t not a horrid storm? O, well-shaped sweet, Could your quick eye strike through these gashèd wounds, You should behold a heart, a heart, fair creature, Raging more wild than is this frantic sea. Wolt[73] do me a favour? if thou chance survive, But visit Venice, kiss the precious white 230 Of my most,—nay, all epithets are base To attribute to gracious Mellida: Tell her the spirit of Antonio Wisheth his last gasp breath’d upon her breast.”

Ros. Why weeps soft-hearted Florizell?

Ant. Alas, the flinty rocks groan’d at his plaints. “Tell her, (quoth he) that her obdurate sire Hath crack’d his bosom;” therewithal he wept, And thus sigh’d on: “The sea is merciful; Look how it gapes to bury all my grief! 240 Well, thou shalt have it, thou shalt be his tomb: My faith in my love live; in thee, die woe; Die, unmatch’d anguish, die, Antonio!” With that he totter’d from the reeling deck, And down he sunk.

Ros. Pleasure’s body! what makes my Lady weep?

Mel. Nothing, sweet Rossaline, but the air’s sharp[74] — My father’s palace, Madam, will be proud To entertain your presence, if you’ll deign To make repose within. Ay me! 250

Ant. Lady, our fashion is not curious.[75]

Ros. ’Faith, all the nobler, ’tis more generous.

Mel. Shall I then know how fortune fell at last, What succour came, or what strange fate ensued?

Ant. Most willingly: but this same court is vast, And public to the staring multitude.

Ros. Sweet Lady, nay good sweet, now by my troth We’ll be bedfellows: dirt on compliment froth![76]