ACT IV. SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Palace.

Enter DUKE, FIORMONDA, and D'Avolos.

Fior. Art thou Caraffa? is there in thy veins
One drop of blood that issued from the loins
Of Pavy's ancient dukes? or dost thou sit
On great Lorenzo's seat, our glorious father,
And canst not blush to be so far beneath
The spirit of heroic ancestors?

Canst thou ingross a slavish shame, which men,
Far, far below the region of thy state,
Not more abhor, than study to revenge?
Thou an Italian! I could burst with rage,
To think I have a brother so befool'd,
In giving patience to a harlot's lust.

D'Av. One, my lord, that doth so palpably, so apparently make her adulteries a trophy, whiles the poting-stick' to her unsatiate and more than

5 Poting-stick.] A poting, or, as it was more commonly called, a poking-stick, was a slender rod of bone or steel, for setting the plaits of ruffs, cuffs, &c. after starching. The name of this little implement grievously annoys old Stubbes; it was given to it, he says, by the devil, who brought in the practice of starching it might, perhaps, have been more elegant; otherwise, I do not see much amiss in it. Archdeacon Nares, in his valuable Glossary, quotes poted. On which he says, " I have seen this word only in the following instance, and do not exactly know its meaning:

"He keeps a starcht gate, weares a formall ruffe,

A nosegay, set face, and a poted cuffe."

Hayw. Brit. iv. 20.

The meaning is clear enough: a cuff, of which the plaits had

goatish abomination jeers at, and flouts your sleepish, and more than sleepish security.

Fior. What is she, but the sallow-colour'd brat Of some unlanded bankrupt, taught to catch The easy fancy of young prodigal bloods, In springes of her stew-instructed art?Here's your most virtuous duchess! your rare piece!

D'Av. More base in the infiniteness of her sensuality than corruption can infect:-to clip and inveigle your friend too! oh unsufferable!a friend! how of all men are you most unfortunate: -to pour out your soul into the bosom of such a creature, as holds it religion to make your own trust a key to open the passage to your own wife's womb, to be drunk in the privacies of your bed! -think upon that, sir.

Duke. Be gentle in your tortures, e'en for pity; For pity's cause, I beg it.

Fior. Be a prince!

Thou hadst better, duke, thou hadst, been born a peasant.

Now boys will sing thy scandal in the streets,
Tune ballads to thy infamy, get money

been starched, and stiffened and puffed out by the poting-stick. My old schoolmaster wore a coat with a cuff of this kind; it was large, and turned back very far on the sleeve. The good man had figured in it for half a century on Sundays; but, I grieve to say, it excited in his latter days more mirth than reverence in the ungracious urchins who followed him to church. This note (otherwise of no value) may serve to shew that poted cuffs came down, at least in the remote provinces, to Queen Anne's days.

By making pageants of thee, and invent
Some strangely-shaped man-beast, that

horns

Resemble thee, and call it Pavy's duke.

Duke. Endless immortal plague!

may for

D'Av. There's the mischief, sir: in the meantime you shall be sure to have a bastard (of whom you did not so much as beget a little toe, a left ear, or half the farther side of an upper lip) inherit both your throne and name; this would kill the soul of very patience itself.

Duke. Forbear; the ashy paleness of my cheek Is scarleted in ruddy flakes of wrath;

And like some bearded meteor shall suck up,
With swiftest terror, all those dusky mists
That overcloud compassion in our breast.
You have rous'd a sleeping lion, whom no art,
No fawning smoothness shall reclaim; but blood.
And sister thou, thou Roderico, thou,

From whom I take the surfeit of my bane,
Henceforth no more so eagerly pursue,
To whet my dulness; you shall see Caraffa
Equal his birth, and matchless in revenge.

Fior. Why, now I hear you speak in majesty.
D'Av. And it becomes my lord most princely.
Duke. Does it? come hither, sister; thou art

near

In nature, and as near to me in love.
I love thee, yes, by yon bright firmament,
I love thee dearly; but observe me well:
If any private grudge, or female spleen,

Malice or envy, or such woman's frailty,
Have spurr'd thee on to set my soul on fire,
Without apparent certainty; I vow,

And vow again, by all [our] princely blood,
Hadst thou a double soul, or were the lives
Of fathers, mothers, children, or the hearts
Of all our tribes in thine, I would unrip
That womb of bloody mischief with these nails,
Where such a cursed plot as this was hatch'd.
But, D'Avolos, for thee-no more; to work
A yet more strong impression in my brain,
You must produce an instance to mine eye,
Both present and apparent-nay, you shall—

or

Fior. Or what? you will be mad? be rather wise;

Think on Ferentes first, and think by whom
The harmless youth was slaughter'd; had he liv’d,
He would have told you tales: Fernando fear'd it;
And to prevent him, under shew, forsooth,
Of rare device, most trimly cut him off.
Have you yet eyes, duke?

Duke. Shrewdly urged,-'tis 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, sucking one another's lips, nay, begetting an heir to the dukedom, or

practising more than the very act of adultery itself? Give but a little way by a feigned absence, and you shall find 'em-I blush to speak doing what; I am mad to think on't, you are most shamefully, most sinfully, most scornfully cornuted.

Duke. D'ye play upon me? as I am your prince,
There's some shall roar for this! Why, what was I,
Both to be thought or made so vile a thing?
Stay-madam marquess:-ho, Roderico, you, sir,
Bear witness that if ever I neglect

One day, one hour, one minute, to wear out
With toil of plot, or practice of conceit,
My busy skull, till I have found a death
More horrid than the bull of Phalaris,
Or all the fabling poets' dreaming whips;
If ever I take rest, or force a smile

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,
Laughter, and poverty itself can make me!
Let's rise on all sides, friends;-[They rise.]-now
all's agreed:

6

If the moon serve, some that are safe shall bleed.

6 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.