Duke. Good:
I'll slack no time while I am hot in blood.

[Takes up his sword and exit. Fior. Here's royal vengeance! this becomes the

state Of his disgrace, and my unbounded hate. [Exit.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Palace.
FERNANDO: to him the Duke, a sword in one hand and

a bloody dagger in the other.
Duke. Stand, and behold thy executioner,
Thou glorious traitor! I will keep no form
Of ceremonious law to try thy guilt :
Look here, 't is written on my poniard's point,
The bloody evidence of thy untruth,
Wherein thy conscience, and the wrathful rod
Of Heaven's scourge for lust, at once give up
The verdict of thy crying villanies.
I see thou art arm’d; prepare, I crave no odds
Greater than is the justice of my cause ;
Fight, or I'll kill thee.

Fern. Duke, I fear thee not:
But first I charge thee, as thou art a prince,
Tell me, how hast thou used thy dutchess ?

Duke. How ?
To add affliction to thy trembling ghost,
Look on my dagger's crimson die, and judge.

Fern. Not dead ?
Duke. Not dead! yes, by my honour's truth: why

fool,
Dost think I'll hug my injuries ? no, traitor!
I'll mix your souls together in your deaths,
As you did both your bodies in her life.-
Have at thee!
Fern. Stay; I yield my weapon up;

He drops his sword

Here, here's my bosom; as thou art a duke,
Dost honour goodness, if the chaste Bianca
Be murther’d, murther me.

Duke. Faint-hearted coward,
Art thou so poor in spirit ! rise and fight;
Or by the glories of my house and name,
I'll kill thee basely.

Fern. Do but hear me first:
Unfortunate Caraffa, thou hast butcher'd
As innocent a wife, as free from lust,
As any terms of art can deify.

Duke. Pish, this is stale dissimulation;
I'll hear no more.

Fern. If ever I unshrined The altar of her purity, or tasted More of her love, than what, without control Or blame, a brother from a sister might, Rack me to atomies. I must confess I have too much abused thee; did exceed In lawless courtship; 'tis too true, I did: But by the honour which I owe to goodness, For any actual folly, I am free. Duke. 'Tis false : as much, in death, for thee she

spake. Fern. By yonder starry roof, 't is true. O duke! Couldst thou rear up another world like this, Another like to that, and more, or more, Herein thou art most wretched ; all the wealth Of all those worlds could not redeem the loss Of such a spotless wife. Glorious Bianca, Reign in the triumph of thy martyrdom, Earth was unworthy of thee.

Duke. Fernando, dar'st thou swear upon my sword To justify thy words?

Fern. I dare ; look here. [Kisses the sword. 'Tis not the fear of death doth prompt my tongue, For I would wish to die; and thou shalt know, Poor miscrable duke, since she is dead, I'U hold all life a hell.

Duke. Bianca chaste!
Fern. As virtue's self is good.

Duke. Chaste, chaste, and kill'd by me! to her
I offer up this remnant of my-

(Offers to stab himself, and is stayed by FERN. Fern. Hold ! Be gentler to thyself.

Duke. Whither now
Shall I run from the day, where never man,
Nor eye, nor eye of heaven may see a dog
So hateful as I am ? Bianca chaste !
Had not the fury of some hellish rage
Blinded all reason's sight, I must have seen
Her clearness in her confidence to die.
Your leave-

[Kneels, holds up his hands, and, after speaking

to himself a little, rises. 'T is done ; come, friend, now for her love, Her love that praised thee in the pangs of death, I'll hold thee dear; lords, do not care for me, I am too wise to die yet.Oh, Bianca!

SCENE III.

A solemn strain of soft Music. The Scene opens, and

discovers a church, with a tomb in the back

ground. Enter Attendants with torches, after them two Friars;

then the Duke in mourning manner; after him FIORMONDA, ROSEILLI, and a Guard.—D'Avolos fole lowing. When the procession approaches the tomb, they all kneel. The Duke goes to the tomb, and lays his hand on it. The Music ceases. Duke. Peace and sweet rest sleep here ! Let not

the touch Of this my impious hand profane the shrine Of fairest purity, which hovers yet

About these blessed bones inhearsed within.
If in the bosom of this sacred tomb,
Bianca, thy disturbed ghost doth range,
Behold, I offer up the sacrifice
Of bleeding tears, shed from a faithful spring;
Pouring oblations of a mourning heart
To thee, offended spirit! I confess
I am Caraffa, he, that wretched man,
That butcher, who, in my enraged spleen,
Slaughter'd the life of innocence and beauty.
Now come I to pay tribute to those wounds
Which I digg'd up, and reconcile the wrongs
My fury wrought and my contrition mourns.
So chaste, so dear a wife was never man
But I enjoyed: yet in the bloom and pride
Of all her years, untimely took her life.-
Enough; set ope the tomb, that I

may

take My last farewell, and bury griefs with her.

.

My resolution of a glorious name.
Come out, or by the thunder of my rage,
Thou diest a death more fearful than the scourge
Of death can whip thee with.

Fern. Of death? poor duke !
Why that's the aim I shoot at; 't is not threats
(Maugre thy power, or the spite of hell)
Shall rend that honour: let life-hugging slaves,
Whose hands, imbrued in butcheries like thine,
Shake terror to their souls, be loath to die !
See, I am cloth'd in robes that fit the grave;
I pity thy defiance.

Duke. Guard—lay hands, And drag him out.