Webster & Tourneur - John Webster

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blasteth but a petty flower Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth But one pearl from their sceptres: but, alas, When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame, All princely titles perish with their name. Brach. You have said, my lord. Mont. Enough to give you taste How far I am from flattering your greatness. Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you? Do not like young hawks fetch a course about: Your game flies fair and for you. Fran. de Med. Do not fear it: I'll answer you in your own hawking phrase. Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease; Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize. You know Vittoria! Brach. Yes. Fran. de Med. You shift your shirt there, When you retire from tennis? Brach. Happily.[33] Fran. de Med. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune; Yet she wears cloth of tissue. Brach. What of this?— Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal, As part of her confession at next shrift, And know from whence it sails? Fran. de Med. She is your strumpet. Brach. Uncivil sir, there's hemlock in thy breath, And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine, All thy loud cannons, and thy borrowed Switzers, Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates, Durst not supplant her. Fran. de Med. Let's not talk on thunder. Thou hast a wife, our sister: would I had given Both her white hands to death, bound and locked fast. In her last winding-sheet, when I gave thee But one! Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God, then. Fran. de Med. True: Thy ghostly father, with all's absolution, Shall ne'er do so by thee. Brach. Spit thy poison. Fran. de Med. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle. Look to't, for our anger Is making thunder-bolts. Brach. Thunder! in faith, They are but crackers. Fran. de Med. We'll end this with the cannon. Brach. Thou'lt get naught by it but iron in thy wounds, And gunpowder in thy nostrils. Fran. de Med. Better that, Than change perfumes for plasters. Brach. Pity on thee: 'Twere good you'd show your slaves or men condemned Your new-ploughed forehead-defiance! And I'll meet thee, Even in a thicket of thy ablest men. Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further Without a milder limit. Fran. de Med. Willingly. Brach. Have you proclaimed a triumph, that you bait A lion thus! Mont. My lord! Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir. Fran. de Med. We send unto the duke for conference 'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke Is not at home: we come ourself in person; Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear, When Tiber to each prowling passenger Discovers flocks of wild ducks; then, my lord, 'Bout moulting time I mean, we shall be certain To find you sure enough, and speak with you. Brach. Ha! Fran. de Med. A mere tale of a tub, my words are idle; But to express the sonnet by natural reason— When stags grow melancholic, you'll find the season. Mont. No more, my lord: here comes a champion Shall end the difference between you both—

      Re-enter Giovanni.

      Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords,

       What hopes you store in him: this is a casket

       For both your crowns, and should be held like dear.

       Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know,

       It is a more direct and even way

       To train to virtue those of princely blood

       By examples than by precepts: if by examples,

       Whom should he rather strive to imitate

       Than his own father? be his pattern, then;

       Leave him a stock of virtue that may last,

       Should fortune rend his sails and split his mast.

       Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier? Giov. Give me a pike. Fran. de Med. What, practising your pike so young, fair cuz? Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord, Tossing my bullrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me, Might not a child of good discretion Be leader to an army? Fran. de Med. Yes, cousin, a young prince Of good discretion might. Giov. Say you so? Indeed, I have heard, 'tis fit a general Should not endanger his own person oft; So that he make a noise when he's o' horseback, Like a Dansk[34] drummer—O, 'tis excellent!— He need not fight:—methinks his horse as well Might lead an army for him. If I live, I'll charge the French foe in the very front Of all my troops, the foremost man. Fran. de Med. What, what! Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up and follow, But bid them follow me. Brach. Forward, lapwing! He flies with the shell on's head.[35] Fran. de Med. Pretty cousin! Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war, All prisoners that I take I will set free Without their ransom. Fran. de Med. Ha, without their ransom! How, then, will you reward your soldiers That took those prisoners for you? Giov. Thus, my lord; I'll marry them to all the wealthy widows That fall that year. Fran. de Med. Why, then, the next year following, You'll have no men to go with you to war. Giov. Why, then, I'll press the women to the war, And then the men will follow. Mont. Witty prince! Fran. de Med. See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast. Come, you and I are friends. Brach. Most wishedly; Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set, Knit the more strongly. Fran. de Med. Call Camillo hither. [Exit Marcello. You have received the rumour, how Count Lodowick Is turned a pirate? Brach. Yes. Fran. de Med. We are now preparing Some ships to fetch him in. Behold your duchess. We now will leave you, and expect from you Nothing but kind entreaty. Brach. You have charmed me. [Exeunt Francisco de Medicis, Monticelso, and Giovanni. Flamineo retires.

      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

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