Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue Poor wretched woman lived that loved like me, Fern. Oh, madam! Bian. Now hear me out. When first Caraffa, Pavy's duke, my lord, Not mov'd by counsel, or removed by greatness; I have done so: nor was there in the world Bian. True, I do, Beyond imagination! if no pledge Of love can instance what I speak is true, Fern. What do you mean? Bian. If thou dost spoil me of this robe of shame, By my best comforts, here I vow again, To thee, to heaven, to the world, to time, Ere yet the morning shall new-christen day, I'll kill myself! Fern. Come, come; how many women, pray, Were ever heard or read of, granted love, And did as you protest you will? Bian. Fernando, Jest not at my calamity.-I kneel [Kneels. By these dishevell'd hairs, these wretched tears, By all that's good, if what I speak my heart Was never man sued to me I denied; Think me a common and most cunning harlot, as you list. Bian. No, by the faith I owe my bridal vows! But ever hold thee much, much dearer far, Than all my joys on earth, by this chaste kiss. [Kisses him. Fern. You have prevail'd; and Heaven forbid that I Should by a wanton appetite profane This sacred temple! 't is enough for me You'll please to call me servant. Bian. Nay, be thine: Command my power, my bosom; and I'll write Fern. Enough; I'll master passion, and triumph In being conquered; adding to it this, In you my love, as it begun, shall end. Bian. The latter I new-vow-but day comes on! What now we leave unfinish'd of content, Each hour shall perfect up: sweet, let us part. Remember this, and think I speak thy words: Fern. Your most faithful servant. [The scene closes. ACT III. SCENE I. A Room in the Palace. Enter DUKE and D'Avolos. Duke. Thou art a traitor: do not think the gloss Of smooth evasion, by your cunning jests, And coinage of your politician's brain, Shall jig me off; I'll know 't, I vow I will. Did not I note your dark abrupted ends Of words half-spoke? your "wells, if all were known ?" Your short, "I like not that ?" your girds and "buts?" D'Av. What would you know, my lord? I confess I owe my life and service to you, as to my prince; the one you have, the other you may take from me at your pleasure. Should I devise matter to feed your distrust, or suggest likelihoods without appearance? what would you have me say? I know nothing. Duke. Thou liest, dissembler; on thy brow I read Distracted horrors figured in thy looks. On thy allegiance, D'Avolos, as e'er Thou hop'st to live in grace with us, unfold Shall be our special thanks, and love unterm'd:" D'Av. Oh my disaster! my lord, I am so charmed by those powerful repetitions of love and duty, that I cannot conceal what I know of your dishonour. 1 And love unterm'd,] i. e. inexpressible; or rather, perhaps, intermi nable.-GIFFORD. Duke. “Dishonour!" then my soul is cleft with fear: I half-presage my misery; say on, Speak it at once, for I am great with grief. D'Av. I trust your highness will pardon me; yet I will not deliver a syllable which shall be less innocent than truth itself. Duke. By all our wish of joys, we pardon thee. D'Av. Get from me, cowardly servility! my service is noble, and my loyalty an armour of brass: in short, my lord, and plain discovery,— Duke. Out with the word! D'Av. Fernando is your rival, has stolen your dutchess's heart, murther'd friendship. Duke. My heart is split. D'Av. Take courage, be a prince in resolution: I knew it would nettle you in the fire of your composition, and was loath to have given the first report of this more than ridiculous blemish to all patience or moderation; but oh, my lord, what would not a subject do to approve his loyalty to his sovereign? Duke. The icy current of my frozen blood Is kindled up in agonies as hot As flames of burning sulphur. Oh my fate! That he should be the man! death above utterance! Take heed you prove this true. D'Av. My lord. Duke. If not, I'll tear thee joint by joint.-Phew! methinks [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Palace. Enter DUKE, FIORMONDA, and D'Avolos. Canst thou engross a slavish shame, which men, Duke. Forbear; the ashy paleness of my cheek |