Act 4 — ACT IV.

Mar. Away with this disguise in any hand!

Alb. Fie, ’tis unsuiting to your elate spirit: Rather put on some transhaped cavalier, Some habit of a spitting critic, whose mouth Voids nothing but gentile and unvulgar Rheum of censure: rather assume——

Ant. Why, then should I put on the very flesh Of solid folly. No, this cock’s comb is a crown Which I affect even with unbounded zeal.

Alb. ’Twill thwart your plot, disgrace your high resolve. 10

Ant. By wisdom’s heart, there is no essence mortal That I can envy, but a plump-cheek’d fool: O, he hath a patent of immunities Confirm’d by custom, seal’d by policy, As large as spacious thought.

Alb. You cannot press among the courtiers, And have access to——

Ant. What? not a fool? Why, friend, a golden ass, A babled[285] fool, are sole canonical, Whilst pale-cheek’d wisdom, and lean-ribbèd art 20 Are kept in distance at the halbert’s point; All held Apocrypha, not worth survey. Why, by the genius of that Florentine, Deep, deep observing, sound-brain’d Machiavel, He is not wise that strives not to seem fool. When will the Duke hold fee’d intelligence, Keep wary observation in large pay, To dog a fool’s act?

Mar. Ay, but feigning known disgraceth much.

Ant. Pish! Most things that morally adhere to souls, 30 Wholly exist in drunk opinion: Whose reeling censure, if I value not, It values nought.

Mar. You are transported with too slight a thought, If you but meditate of what is past, And what you plot to pass.

Ant. Even in that note a fool’s beatitude: He is not capable of passion; Wanting the power of distinction, He bears an unturned sail with every wind: 40 Blow east, blow west, he stirs his course alike. I never saw a fool lean: the chub-faced fop Shines sleek with full-cramm’d fat of happiness, Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice From wisards’[286] cheeks: who making curious search For nature’s secrets, the first innating cause Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy apes When they will zany men. Had Heaven been kind, Creating me an honest senseless dolt, A good poor fool, I should want sense to feel 50 The stings of anguish shoot through every vein; I should not know what ’twere to lose a father; I should be dead of sense to view defame Blur my bright love; I could not thus run mad, As one confounded in a maze of mischief, Stagger’d, stark, fell’d with bruising stroke of chance; I should not shoot mine eyes into the earth, Poring for mischief that might counterpoise Mischief, murder and——

How now, Lucio?

Lu. My lord, the Duke, with the Venetian states,[287] 60 Approach the great hall to judge Mellida.

Ant. Ask’d he for Julio yet?

Lu. No motion[288] of him: dare you trust this habit?

Ant. Alberto, see you straight rumour me dead. Leave me, good mother; leave me, Lucio; Forsake me, all.

Now patience hoop my sides With steelèd ribs, lest I do burst my breast With struggling passions. Now disguise, stand bold: Poor scornèd habits oft choice souls enfold.

Pier. Entreat me not: there’s not a beauty lives 70 Hath that imperial predominance O’er my affects[289] as your enchanting graces: Yet give me leave to be myself—

Ant. [Aside.] A villain.

Pier. Just—

Ant. [Aside.] Most just.

Pier. Most just and upright in our judgment seat. Were Mellida mine eye, with such a blemish Of most loath’d looseness, I would scratch it out. Produce the strumpet in her bridal robes, That she may blush t’appear so white in show, 80 And black in inward substance. Bring her in.

I hold Antonio, for his father’s sake, So very dearly, so entirely choice, That knew I but a thought of prejudice Imagined ’gainst his high ennobled blood, I would maintain a mortal feud, undying hate, ’Gainst the conceiver’s life. And shall justice sleep In fleshly lethargy, for mine own blood’s favour, When the sweet prince hath so apparent scorn By my—I will not call her daughter? Go, 90 Conduct in the loved youth Antonio:

He shall behold me spurn my private good; Piero loves his honour more than ’s blood.

Pier. Forbear, Balurdo; let the fool alone. Come hither.[292] Is he your fool?

Pier. [Aside.] Would all the states[293] in Venice were like thee! O then I were secur’d. 110 He that’s a villain, or but meanly soul’d, Must still converse and cling to routs of fools, That can not search the leaks of his defects. O, your unsalted fresh fool is your only man: These vinegar tart spirits are too piercing, Too searching in the unglued joints of shaken wits. Find they a chink, they’ll wriggle in and in, And eat like salt sea in his siddow[294] ribs, Till they have opened all his rotten parts Unto the vaunting surge of base contempt, 120 And sunk the tossèd galleasse[295] in depth Of whirlpool scorn. Give me an honest fop.— Dud a dud a! Why lo, sir, this takes he As grateful now as a monopoly.

Pier. Forbear, impure, to blot bright honour’s name With thy defilèd lips. The flux of sin Flows from thy tainted body: thou so foul, So all dishonour’d, canst no honour give, No wish of good, that can have good effect 130 To this grave senate, and illustrate bloods. Why stays the doom of death?

Pier. Why, where is Strotzo?—he that swore he saw The very act, and vow’d that Feliche fled Upon his sight: on which I brake the breast Of the adulterous lecher with five stabs. Go, fetch in Strotzo. Now, thou impudent, If thou hast any drop of modest blood 140 Shrouded within thy cheeks, blush, blush for shame, That rumour yet may say thou felt’st defame.

Mel. With tears, with blushes, sighs, and claspèd hands; With innocent uprearèd arms to Heaven; With my unnookt[296] simplicity. These, these Must, will, can only quit my heart of guilt: 150 Heaven permits not taintless blood be spilt. If no remorse live in your savage breast——

Mel. Yet blest, in that I strove To live, and die——

Str. O what vast ocean of repentant tears Can cleanse my breast from the polluting filth Of ulcerous sin! Supreme Efficient, Why cleavest thou not my breast with thunderbolts 160 Of wing’d revenge?

Str. By his ambition being only bribed, Fee’d by his impious hand, I poisonèd 180 His agèd father, that his thirsty hope[s] Might quench their dropsy of aspiring drought With full unbounded quaff.

Str. O, why permit you now such scum of filth As Strotzo is to live and taint the air With his infectious breath!

Pier. I—pluck Castilio!—I change my humour: pluck Castilio! Die, with thy death’s entreats even in thy jaws.— 190 [Aside.] Now, now, now, now, now, my plot begins to work! Why, thus should statesmen do, That cleave through knots of craggy policies, Use men like wedges, one strike out another, Till by degrees the tough and knurly[300] trunk Be riv’d in sunder.—Where’s Antonio?

Mel. Ay, is this the close of all my strains in love? O me most wretched maid!

Alb. Distraught and raving, from a turret’s top He threw his body in the swollen sea, And as he headlong topsy turvy ding’d[301] down, He still cried “Mellida!”

Pier. Daughter, methinks your eyes should sparkle joy, Your bosom rise on tiptoe at this news. 210

Pier. How now? Ay, me! why, art not great of thanks To gracious Heaven for the just revenge Upon the author of thy obloquies!

Mar. Sweet beauty, I could sigh as fast as you, But that I know that, which I weep to know. [Aside.] His[302] fortunes should be such he dare not show His open presence!

Mel. I know he lov’d me dearly, dearly, ay: And since I cannot live with him, I die. 220

Pier. ’Fore Heaven, her speech falters; look, she swouns. Convey her up into her private bed.

Ant. Antonio’s dead! the fool will follow too. He, he, he! [Aside.] Now works the scene; quick observation, scud To cote[303] the plot, or else the path is lost: My very self am gone, my way is fled: Ay, all is lost, if Mellida is dead.

Pier. Alberto, I am kind; Alberto, kind. 230 I am sorry for thy coz, i’faith I am. Go, take him down, and bear him to his father. Let him be buried; look ye, I’ll pay the priest.

Pier. God’s fut, no, thou odd uncivil fellow! I think you do forget, sir, where you are. 240

Foro. You are too malapert, i’faith you are. Your honour might do well to——

Alb. Peace, parasite; thou bur, that only sticks Unto the nap of greatness.

Alb. I—I am gone; but mark, Piero, this. There is a thing call’d scourging Nemesis.[304]

Pier. Young Galeatzo! Ay, a proper man; 260 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 solemnise 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 cock-sure.

Pier. Go to, thou shall have right. Go to, Castilio, Clap him into the palace dungeon; 271 Lap him in rags, and let him feed on slime That smears the dungeon’ cheek. Away with him.

Bal. Why then, O wight! Alas, poor knight! O, welladay, Sir Jefferay! 280 Let poets roar, And all deplore; For now I bid you good-night.

Mar. O piteous end of love! O too, too rude hand Of unrespective death! Alas, sweet maid!

Pier. Forbear me, Heaven. What intend these plaints?

Mar. The beauty of admired creation, The life of modest unmix’d purity, Our sex’s glory, Mellida is——

Mar. Dead! 290

Pier. May it not sad your thoughts, how?

Mar. Being laid upon her bed, she grasp’d my hand, And kissing it, spake thus: “Thou very poor, Why dost not weep? The jewel of thy brow, The rich adornment that enchased 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 blurr’d With guiltless blots? O world, thou art too subtle For honest natures to converse withal, 300 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 press’d unto the bed, Screech’d out so loud that he brought back her soul, Call’d her again, that her bright eyes gan ope, And stared upon him. He, audacious fool, Dared kiss her hand, wish’d her “soft rest, loved bride;” She fumbled out, “thanks, good;” and so she died. 310

Pier. And so she died! I do not use to weep; But by thy love (out of whose fertile sweet I hope for as fair fruit) I am deep sad.— I will not stay my marriage for all this.— Castilio, Forobosco, all, Strain all your wits, wind up invention Unto his highest bent, to sweet this night; Make us drink Lethe by your quaint conceits, That for two days oblivion smother grief. But when my daughter’s exequies approach, 320 Let’s all turn sighers. Come, despite of fate, Sound loudest music, let’s pace out in state!

Ant. Ay, heaven, thou may’st, thou may’st, omnipotence. What vermin bred of putrefacted slime Shall dare to expostulate with thy decrees! O heaven, thou may’st 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,[308] takes it back. She was my vital blood, and yet, and yet, 10 I’ll not blaspheme. Look here! behold!

I turn my prostrate breast upon thy face, And vent a heaving sigh. O hear but this! I am a poor, poor orphant—a weak, weak child,— The wrack 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 other’s cursèd blood With the dead palsy of like misery. 20 Then, death, like to a stifling incubus,[309] Lie on my bosom. Lo, see,[310] I am sped. My breast is Golgotha, grave for the dead.

Pan. 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, He[311] who hath naught that fortune’s gripe can seize, The domineering monarch of the earth; 30 He who is all impregnably his own, He whose great heart heaven cannot force with force, Vouchsafes his love. Non servio Deo, sed assentio.

Pan. Didst find her good, or didst thou make her good? If found, thou may’st refind, because thou hadst her; If made, the work is lost, but thou that madest her Livest yet as cunning. Hast lost a good wife? Thrice-blessèd man that lost her whilst she was good, Fair, young, unblemish’d, constant, loving, chaste. 40 I tell thee, youth, age knows, young loves seem graced, Which with gray cares, rude jars, are oft defaced.

Pan. May be, may be; but that which may be stood, Stands now without all may. She dièd good, And dost thou grieve?

Pan. I live encompass’d with two blessèd 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 fix’d day of pay 50 Set down by fate, thou must restore again.[312] O what unconscionable souls are here! Are you all like the spoke-shaves of the church? Have you no maw to restitution? Hast lost a true friend, coz? then thou hadst one. I tell thee, youth, ’tis all as difficult To find true friend in this apostate age (That balks all right affiance ’twixt two hearts) As ’tis to find a fixèd modest heart Under a painted breast. Lost a true friend! 60 O happy soul that lost him whilst he was true! Believe it, coz, I to my tears have found, Oft dirt’s respect makes firmer friends unsound.

Pan. Why, there’s the comfort on’t, that he was good. Alas, poor innocent!

Pan. Ha, dost ask me why? ha, ha! Good coz, look here!

Man will break out, despite philosophy. Why, all this while I ha’ but played a part, 70 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.

Ant. ’Slid, sir, ye lie! by the heart of grief, thou liest! I scorn’d that any wretched should survive, Outmounting me in that superlative, Most miserable, most unmatch’d in woe. 80 Who dare assume that but Antonio?

Pan. 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.

Pan. Why, coz! why should it not be hoarse and crack’d, When all the strings of nature’s symphony Are crack’d and jar? Why should his voice keep tune, When there’s no music in the breast of man? I’ll say an honest antic rhyme I have: Help me, good sorrow-mates, to give him grave.

Death, exile, plaints, and woe, Are but man’s lackeys, not his foe. No mortal ’scapes from fortune’s war Without a wound, at least a scar. 100 Many have led thee[313] 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 blessèd man that dieth just.

Ant. The gloomy wing of night begins to stretch His lazy pinion o’er the air. We must be stiff and steady in resolve; Let’s thus our hands, our hearts, our arms involve. 110

Pan. Now swear we by this Gordian knot of love, By the fresh-turned up mould that wraps my son, By the d[r]ead brow of triple Hecate, Ere night shall close the lids of yon bright stars, We’ll sit as heavy on Piero’s heart, As Ætna doth on groaning Pelorus.

Ant. Thanks, good old man; we’ll cast at royal chance. Let’s think a plot—then pell-mell, vengeance!