THE SCENE – – ITALY

ACT I SCENE I

Enter Count Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo

Lodo. Banish’d!

Ant. It griev’d me much to hear the sentence.

Lodo. Ha, ha, O Democritus, thy gods
That govern the whole world! courtly reward
And punishment. Fortune’s a right whore:
If she give aught, she deals it in small parcels,
That she may take away all at one swoop.
This ’tis to have great enemies! God’s quite them.
Your wolf no longer seems to be a wolf
Than when she’s hungry.

Gas. You term those enemies, Are men of princely rank.

Lodo. Oh, you slave! You that were held the famous politician,
Whose art was poison.

Gas. And whose conscience, murder.

Lodo. That would have broke your wife’s neck down the stairs,
Ere she was poison’d.

Gas. That had your villainous sallets.

Lodo. And fine embroider’d bottles, and perfumes,
Equally mortal with a winter plague.

Gas. Now there’s mercury —-

Lodo. How! how! I hope you will not got to’t here.

Fran. Nay, you must hear my dream out.

Zan. Well, sir, forth

Fran. When I threw the mantle o’er thee, thou didst laugh
Exceedingly, methought.

Zan. Laugh!

Fran. And criedst out, the hair did tickle thee.

Zan. There was a dream indeed!

Lodo. Mark her, I pray thee, she simpers like the suds
A collier hath been wash’d in.

Zan. Come, sir; good fortune tends you.
I did tell you I would reveal a secret :
Isabella, The Duke of Florence’s sister, was empoisone’d.
By a fum’d picture; and Camillo’s neck
Was broke by damn’d Flamineo, the mischance
Laid on a vaulting-horse.

Fran. Most strange!

Zan. Most true.

Lodo. The bed of snakes is broke.

Zan. I sadly do confess, I had a hand In the black deed.

Fran. Thou kept’st their counsel.

Zan. Right;
For which, urg’d with contrition, I intend
This night to rob Vittoria.

Lodo. Excellent penitence!
Usurers dream on’t while they sleep out sermons.

Zan. To further our escape, I have entreated
Leave to retire me, till the funeral,
Unto a friend i’th’country: that excuse
Will further our escape. In coin and jewels
I shall at least make good unto your use
An hundred thousand crowns.

Fran. Oh, ’twas well!
We shall not want his absence past six days:
I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run
Into notorious scandal; for there’s naught
In such cursed dotage, to repair his name,
Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.

Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable
To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,
For my revenge I’d stake a brother’s life,
That being wrong’d, durst not avenge himself.

Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.

Mont. Curse of greatness! Sure he’ll die.