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! Dishonour'd! had my dukedom's whole inheritance Been rent, mine honours levell'd in the dust, So she, that wicked woman, might have slept Chaste in my bosom, 't had been all a sport.— And he, that villain, viper to my heart, 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, Not more abhor, than study to revenge? Duke. Forbear; the ashy paleness of my cheek Is scarleted in ruddy flakes of wrath; And like some bearded meteor shall suck up, I love thee, yes, by yon bright firmament, Have spurr'd thee on to set my soul on fire, Of rare device, most trimly cut him off. Duke. Shrewdly urged, 't is piercing. Fior. For looking on a sight shall split your soul. You shall not care; I'll undertake myself To do 't some two days hence; for need, to-night— But that you are in court. D'Av. Right. Would you desire, my lord, to see them exchange kisses? Give but a little way by a feigned absence, and you shall find 'em at it. Duke. D'ye play upon me? as I am your prince, One day, one hour, one minute, to wear out Which is not borrowed from a royal vengeance, Before I know which way to satisfy Fury and wrong,-nay, kneel down-[They kneel.]— let me die More wretched than despair, reproach, contempt. Let's rise on all sides, friends;-[They rise.]—now all's agreed: If the moon serve,1 some that are safe shall bleed. [Exeunt DUKE and D'AVOLOS. Enter FERNANDO. Fior. My lord Fernando. Fern. Madam. Fior. Do you note My brother's odd distractions? You were wont You know the ground of it. Fern. Not I, in troth. Fior. Is 't possible! What would you say, my lord, If he, out of some melancholy spleen, Edged on by some thank-picking parasite, Should now prove jealous? I mistrust it shrewdly. Fern. What, madam! jealous? Fior. Yes; for but observe; A prince, whose eye is chooser to his heart, By warranted description, have observ'd If not in him; yet, on my conscience now, 1 If the moon serve, some that are safe shall bleed.] In Ford's time, and indeed long before and after it, the days of the moon held to be propitious to bleeding were distinguished by particular marks; and such was the absurd reliance on this ignorant medley of quackery and superstition, that few families would have ventured on the operation on one of the dies nefasti.-GIFFORD. Fern. Cause, madam! by this light, I'll pledge my soul against a useless rush. Fior. I never thought her less; yet trust me, sir, No merit can be greater than your praise: Whereat I strangely wonder, how a man Vow'd, as you told me, to a single life, Should so much deify the saints, from whom You have disclaim'd devotion. Fern. Madam, 't is true; From them I have, but from their virtues never. Fern. My aim ? Fior. Yes, yours; I hope I talk no news. Fernando, know Fern. [Walks aside.] Injurious woman, I defy thy lust. "T is not your subtle sifting that shall creep You are my prince's sister, else your malice [Exit. Fior. What, gone! well, go thy ways; I see the more I humble my firm love, the more he shuns Both it and me. So plain! then 't is too late Fool, he shall know I was not born to kneel. [Exit. |