  Enter Antonio and a Slave, one in the other's habit Slave. But faith, sir, what's your device in this? This change insinuates some project. Ant. Shall I tell thee? Thou art my slave; I took thee (then a Turk) In the fight thou know'st we made before Palermo: Thou art not in stricter bondage unto me Than I am unto Cupid. Slave. O, then you are going, sir, To your old rendezvous; there are brave rogues there: But the duke observes you narrowly, and sets spies To watch if you step that way. Ant. Why therefore, man, Thus many times I have chang'd habits with thee, To cheat suspicion: and prejudicate Nature (Mistress of inclinations), sure, intended To knit thee up so like me for this purpose; For th' hast been taken in my habit for me. Slave. Yes, and have had many a French cringe, As I have walk'd i' th' park; and, for fear of discovery, I have crown'd it only with a nod. Enter a Lord. Ant. Th' art a mad villain. But, sirrah, I am wondrously taken With a sweet face I saw yonder; thou know'st where. Slave. At Venus College, the court bawdy-house. Ant. But this maid, howsoever she came there, Is acquainted so with Heaven, that when I thought To have quench'd my frantic blood, and to have pluck'd The fruit a king would leap at: even then She beat me with such brave thunder off, as if Heaven had lent her the artillery of angels. Slave. She was coy then? Ant. Coy, man! she was honest—left coyness to court ladies: She spake the language of the saints, methought. Holy spectators sat on silver clouds, And clapp'd their white wings at her well-plac'd words. She piecemeal pull'd the frame of my intentions, And so join'd it again, that all the tempest Of blood can never move it. Slave. Some rare phoenix! what's her name? Ant. 'Tis Millicenta, and wondrous aptly, For she is mistress of a hundred thousand holy heavenly thoughts. Chastely I love her now, and she must know it: Such wondrous wealth is virtue, it makes the woman Wears it about her worthy of a king, Since kings can be but virtuous: farewell. A crown is but the care of deceiv'd life; He's king of men is crown'd with such a wife. [Exit Antonio, and the Lord after him. Slave. Are your thoughts levell'd at that white, then? This shall to th' duke your dad, sir. He can never talk with me, We made before Palermo! I did command Men as he did there, Turks and valiant men: And though to wind myself up for his ruin, That I may fall and crush him, I appear To renounce Mahomet, and seem a Christian, 'Tis but conveniently to stab this Christian, Or any way confound him, and 'scape cleanly. Ere This letter came even now, which likewise certifies He waits me three leagues off, with a horse for flight Of a Turkish captain, commander of a galley. He keeps me as his slave, because indeed I play'd the devil at sea with him; but having Thus wrought myself into him, I intend To give him but this day to take his leave Of the whole world. He will come back by twilight: I'll wait him with a pistol. O sweet revenge! Laugh, our great prophet, he shall understand, When we think death farthest off, he's nearest hand. Enter Philippo. Phil. You and I must meet no more, sir: there's your kick again. [Kicks him. Slave. Hold, hold! what mean you, sir? Phil. I have brought your kick back, sir—— [Shoots him. Slave. Hold, man, I am not—— [Falls. Phil. Thou hast spoken true, thou art not—— What art thou? But I am for Verona. [Exit. Slave. Mine own words catch me: 'tis I now understand, When we think death farthest off, he's nearest hand. [Dies. Enter Lorenzo. Lor. She lives not, sure, in Milan! report but wore Her usual habit when she told in Verona She met Abstemia here. O Abstemia, How lovely thou look'st now! now thou appearest Chaster than is the morning's modesty, That rises with a blush, over whose bosom The western wind creeps softly. Now I remember How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well, Unless it look'd where I look'd. O, how proud She was, when she could cross herself to please me! But where now is this fair soul? like a silver cloud, She hath wept herself, I fear, into th' dead sea, And will be found no more: this makes me mad, To rave and call on death; but the slave shrinks, And is as far to find as she. Abstemia, If thou not answer or appear to knowledge, That here with shame I sought thee in this wood, Enter the Duke of Milan, Sebastiano, Sanchio, and the Lord. Mil. Followed you him thus far? Lord. Just to this place, sir: The slave he loves left him; here they parted. Mil. Certain, he has some private haunt this way. Seb. Ha! private indeed, sir: O, behold and see Where he lies full of wounds! Lord. My lord. Mil. My son Antonio! who hath done this deed? San. My Lord Antonio! Mil. He's gone, he's gone! warm yet? bleeds fresh? and whilst We here hold passion play, we but advantage The flying murderer. Bear his body gently Unto the lodge. O, what hand hath so hid That sunlike face behind a crimson cloud! Use all means possible for life: but I fear Charity will arrive too late. To horse! Disperse through the wood: run, ride, make way, The sun in Milan is eclips'd this day! Omnes. To horse, and raise more pursuit! [Exeunt. Enter Lorenzo with his sword drawn. Lor. Abstemia! O, take her name, you winds, upon your wings, And through the wanton region of the air Softly convey it to her. There's no sweet sufferance, Now to my sides: my will the centre stood To all her chaste endeavours: all her actions, With a perfection perpendicular, Pointed upon it. She is lost! O she, The well-built fort of virtue's victory! For still she conquer'd: since she is lost, then, My friendly sword, find thou my heart. With. Follow, follow! Enter Duke of Milan, Sanchio, and Sebastiano. Mil. This way. What's he? lay hands on him. Seb. The murd'rer, on my life, my lord, here in the wood Was close beset; he would have slain himself. Mil. Speak, villain, art thou the bloody murderer? Lor. Of whom? San. His dissembled ignorance speaks him the man. Seb. Of the duke's son, the Prince Antonio, sir: 'Twas your hand that kill'd him. Lor. Your lordship lies; it was my sword. Mil. Out, slave! Ravens shall feed upon thee: speak, what cause Hadst thou with one unhappy wound to cloud That star of Milan? Lor. Because he was an erring star, Not fix'd nor regular. I will resolve nothing: I did it, do not repent it; and were it To do again, I'd do't. Omnes. Bloodthirsty villain! Mil. Lead O my Antonio! how did thy youth stray, Lor. O my Abstemia! who cast thy fate so bad, To clip Enter Antonio and Abstemia. Abs. Good sir, the prince makes known his wisdom, To make you speaker in his cause. Ant. Me? know, mistress, I have felt love's passions equal with himself, And can discourse of love's cause: had you seen him When he sent me to ye, how truly he did look; And when your name slipp'd through his trembling lips, A lover's lovely paleness straight possess'd him. Abs. Fie, fie! Ant. Go, says he, to that something more than woman— And he look'd as if by something he meant saint; Tell her I saw heaven's army in her eyes, And that from her chaste heart such excellent goodness Came, like full rivers flowing, that there wants nothing But her soft yielding will to make her wife Unto the Prince Antonio. O, will you fly A fortune, which great ladies would pursue Upon their knees with prayers? Abs. No, Lorenzo, Had law to this new love made no denial: A chaste wife's truth shines through the greatest trial. Enter Morbo. Mor. How now, what make you i' th' wood here? Where's my old lady? Abs. I know not. Mor. All the country's in an uproar yonder: the Prince Antonio's slain. Ambo. How! Mor. Nay, no man can tell how; but the murd'rer with's sword in's hand is taken. Ant. Is he of Milan? Mor. No, of Verona: I heard his name, and I have forgot it. Ant. I am all wonder; 'tis the slave, sure! Mor. Lor—Lor—Lorenzo. Abs. Ha, Lorenzo! What, I pray? Mor. Lorenzo Me—Medico has run him in the eye, some thirty-three inches, two barleycorns: they could scarce know him for the blood, but by his apparel. I must find out my lady; he used our house; intelligence has been given of his pilgrimage thither. I am afraid I shall be singed to death with torches, and my lady stewed between two dishes. Ant. Why hath this thus amazed you, mistress? Abs. O, leave me, leave me: I am all distraction; Struck to the soul with sorrow. Enter Milan, Lords, and Lorenzo guarded. Ant. See where they come! My father full of tears, too. I'll stand by: Strange changes must have strange discovery. Abs. 'Tis he: heart, how thou leap'st! O ye deluded, And full of false rash judgment! why do ye lead Get garlands rather: let palm and laurel round Those temples, where such wedlock-truth is found. Lor. Ha! Omnes. Wedlock! Abs. O Lorenzo! thou hast suffer'd bravely, And wondrous far: look on me, here I come, Hurried by conscience to confess the deed. Thy innocent blood will be too great a burthen Upon the judge's soul. Lor. Abstemia! Abs. Look, look, How he will blind ye! by and by, he'll tell ye We saw not one another many a day; In love's cause we dare make our lives away. He would redeem mine: 'tis my husband, sir; Dearly we love together; but I, being often By the dead prince, your son, solicited To wrong my husband's bed, and still resisting, Where you found him dead he met me, and the place Presenting opportunity, he would there Have forc'd me to his will; but prizing honesty Far above proffer'd honour, with my knife, In my resistance, most unfortunately I struck him in the eye. He fell, was found, The pursuit rais'd, and ere I could get home My husband met me; I confess'd all to him. He, excellent in love as the sea-inhabitant, Of whom 'tis writ that, when the flatt'ring hook Has struck his female, he will help her off, Although he desperately put on himself, But if he fail, and see her leave his eye, He swims to land, will languish, and there die— Such is his love to me; for, pursu'd closely, He bid me save myself, and he would stay To requite my loyalty, though with his death. Fear forc'd my acceptance then; but conscience Hath brought me back to preserve innocence. Seb. The circumstances produce probability. Lor. By truth herself she slanders truth: she and I Have not met these many months. O my Abstemia! Thou wouldst be now too excellent. Ant. These are strange turns. Mil. Let not love strangle justice. Speak: on thy soul, Was it her hand that slew the prince? Lor. Not, on my life; 'Tis I have deserv'd death. Abs. Love makes him desperate, Conscience is my accuser. O Lorenzo! [The Duke and Lords whisper. Live thou, and feed on my remembrance: When thou shalt think how ardently I love thee, Drop but a pair of tears from those fair eyes, Thou offer'st truth a wealthy sacrifice. Lor. Did ye hear, sir? Mil. No, what said she? Lor. She ask'd me, why I would cast myself away thus, When she in love devis'd this trick to save me. San. There may be juggling, sir, in this: it may be They have both hands i' th' deed, and one in love Would suffer for't. Enter a Lord. Mil. What news? Lord. The Dukes of Venice and Verona, With some small train of gentlemen, are privately This hour come to the court. Mil. Bear them to prison, Until we have given such entertainment sorrow Will give us leave to show: until that time, The satisfaction of my lost son's life Must hover 'twixt a husband and a wife. [Exeunt. Manet Antonio. Ant. How strangely chance to-day runs! the slave kill'd In my apparel, and this fellow taken for't, Whom to my knowledge I never saw. She loves him Past all expression dearly. I have a trick, In that so infinitely dear she loves him, Has seal'd her mine already; and I'll put This wondrous love of woman to such a nonplus, Time hath produc'd none stranger. I will set Honour and Love to fight for life and death. Beauty (as castles built of cards) with a breath Is levell'd and laid flat. Enter Philippo, putting on a disguise, lays down a pistol. Phil. Misery of ignorance! It was the Prince Antonio I have slain. Ant. Ha! the clue of all this error is unravell'd, This is the valiant gentleman so threaten'd me: He met the slave, doubtless, in my habit, And seal'd upon him his mistaken spleen. If it be so, there hangs some strange intent In those accuse themselves for't. Phil. It seems some other had laid the plot to kill him. This paper I found with him speaks as much, Happen'd (it seems) to his hands. It concurs; For they say, there is one taken for the fact, And will do me the courtesy to be hang'd for me. There's comfort yet in that. So, so: I am fitted; And will set forward. [Antonio takes up the pistol. Ant. Goose, there's a fox in your way. Phil. Betrayed! Ant. Come, I have another business afoot: I have no time to discover 'em now, sir. See, I can enforce you; but by this hand, go but with me, and keep your own counsel. Garden-houses Phil. Th' art a mad knave: art serious? Ant. As a usurer when he's telling interestmoney. Phil. Whate'er thou art, thy bluntness begets belief. Go on, I trust thee. Ant. But I have more wit than to trust you behind me, sir; pray, get you before. I have a friend shall keep you in custody till I have passed a project; and if you can keep your own counsel, I will not injure you. And this for your comfort—the prince lives. Phil. Living! Thou mak'st my blood dance. But prythee, let's be honest one to another. Ant. O sir, as the justices' clerk and the constable, when they share the crowns that drunkards pay to the poor. Pray, keep fair distance, and take no great strides. [Exeunt. Enter Lorenzo and Abstemia, as in prison. Lor. Can then Abstemia forgive Lorenzo? Abs. Yes, if Lorenzo can but love Abstemia, She can hang thus upon his neck, and call This prison true love's palace. Lor. O, let kings Forget their crowns that know what 'tis to enjoy The wondrous wealth of one so good. Now Thou art lovely as young As is the well-spread cedar; the fair fruit, Kiss'd by the sun so daily, that it wears The lovely blush of maids, seems but to mock Thy soul's integrity. Here let me fall, And with pleading sighs beg pardon. Enter Antonio. Abs. Sir, it meets you, Like a glad pilgrim, whose desiring eye Longs for the long-wish'd altar of his vow. But you are far too prodigal in praise, And crown me with the garlands of your merit. As we meet barks on rivers, the strong gale (Being best friends to us), our own swift motion Makes us believe that t'other nimbler rows: Swift virtue thinks small goodness fastest goes. Lor. Sorrow hath bravely sweeten'd thee! What are you? Ant. A displeasant black cloud! though I appear dismal, I am wondrous fruitful. What cause soever Mov'd you to take this murder on yourself, Or you to strike yourself into the hazard For his redemption, 'tis to me a stranger! But I conceive you are both innocent. Lor. As newborn virtue. I did accuse My innocence, to rid me of a life Look'd uglier than death upon an injury I had done this virtuous wife. Abs. And I accus'd My innocence, to save the belov'd life Of my most noble husband. Ant. Why, then, now 'twould grieve you Death should unkindly part ye. Lor. O, but that, sir, We have no sorrow. Now to part from her, Since Heaven hath new-married and new-made us, I had rather leap into a den of lions, Snatch from a hungry bear her bleeding prey: I would attempt desperate impossibilities With hope, rather than now to leave her. Ant. This makes for me. [Aside. Abs. And rather than leave you, sir, I would eat Hot coals with Portia, or attempt a terror Nature would, snail-like, shrink her head in at, And tremble but to think on. Ant. Better and better. [Aside. If you so love him, what can you conceive The greatest kindness can express that love? Abs. To save his life, since there is no hope, Seeing he so strongly has confess'd the murder, We shall meet the happiness to die together. Ant. Fire casts the bravest heat in coldest weather: I'll try how ardently you burn; for know, Upon my faith, and as I am a gentleman, I have in the next room, and in the custody Of a true friend, the man that did the deed You stand accus'd for. Abs. Hark there, Lorenzo! Lor. Will you not let him go, sir? Ant. That's in suspense. But, mistress, you did say, You durst eat coals with Portia, to redeem The infinitely lov'd life of your husband. Abs. And still [do] strongly protest it. Lor. O my Abstemia! Ant. You shall redeem him at an easier rate: I have the murderer, you see, in hold. Lor. And we are bless'd in your discovery of him. Ant. If you will give consent that I shall taste That sense-bereaving pleasure so familiar Unto your happy husband—— Abs. How? Ant. Pray, hear me: Then I will give this fellow up to the law. If you deny, horses stand ready for us, A bark for transportation; where we will live, Till law by death hath sever'd ye. Lor. But we will call for present witness. Ant. Look ye—— [Shows the pistol. Experienc'd navigators still are fitted For every weather. 'Tis almost past call To reach the nimblest ear: yet but offer it, I part ye presently for ever. Consider it: The enjoying him thou so entirely lov'st All thy life after; that when mirth-spent time Hath crown'd your heads with honour, you may sit And tell delightful stories of your loves; And when ye come to that poor minute's 'scape Crowns my desire, ye may let that slip by, Like water that ne'er meets the miller's eye. Compare but this to th' soon-forgotten pleasure Of a pair of wealthy minutes. The thriftiest Knows the most curious jewel takes no harm For one day's wearing. Could you, sir (did your eye (If secretly return'd and folded up)— Could you conceive, when you next look'd upon't, It had neatly furnish'd out a poor friend's want? Be charitable, and think on't. Lor. Dost hear, Abstemia? O, shall we part for ever, when a price So poor might be our freedom? Abs. Now, goodness guard ye! Where learn't you, sir, this language? Lor. Of true love. You did but now profess that you would die To save my life; and now, like a forward chapman, Catch'd at thy word, thou givest back, asham'd To stand this easy proffer. Abs. Could you live, And know yourself a cuckold? Ant. What a question's that! Many men cannot live without the knowledge. How can ye tell Whether she seems thus to respect your honour, But to stay till the law has chok'd you? It may be then she will do't with less entreaty. Lor. Ay, there, there 'tis. Abs. 'Tis your old fit of jealousy so judges. A foul devil talks within him. Lor. O, the art, The wondrous art of woman! ye would do it daintily; You would juggle me to death; you would persuade me I should die nobly to preserve your honour; That (dead) ignobly you might prove dishonourable, Forget me in a day, and wed another. Abs. Why then would I have died for you? Ant. That was but a proffer, That, dying, you might idolise her love: 'Twould have put her off the better. Lor. O, you have builded A golden palace, strew'd with palm and roses, To let me bleed to death in! How sweetly You would have lost me. Abstemia, you have learn'd The cunning fowler's art, who pleasantly Whistles the bird into the snare. Good Heaven! How you had strew'd the enticing top o' th' cup With Arabian spices! But you had laid i' th' bottom Ephesian aconite. You are love's hypocrite; A rotten stick, in the night's darkness born, And a fair poppy in a field of corn. Abs. O sir! hear me—— [Kneels. Lor. Away! I will no more Look pearl in mud. O sly hypocrisy! Durst ye But now die for me? Good Heaven! die for me! The greatest act of pain, and dare not buy me With a poor minute's pleasure? Abs. No, sir, I dare not: there is little pain in death; But a great death in very little pleasure. I had rather, trust me, bear your death with honour, Than buy your life with baseness. As I am expos'd To th' greatest battery beauty ever fought, O, blame me not if I be covetous To come off with greatest honour. If I do this To let you live, I kill your name, and give My soul a wound; I crush her from sweet grace, And change her angel's to a fury's face. To preserve honour, life is nobly lost. Lor. Thou wealth worth more than kingdoms! I am now Confirm'd past all suspicion, thou art far Sweeter in thy sincere truth, than a sacrifice Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds, That blow off from the coast, and cheer the sailor With the sweet savour of their spices, want The delight flows in thee. Look here, look here, O man of wild desires! We will die the martyrs Of marriage; and, 'stead of the loose ditties With which they stab sweet modesty, and engender Desires in the hot-room, thy noble story [To Abstemia. Shall, laurel-like, crown honest ears with glory. Ant. Murder, murder, murder! Enter the three Dukes, with Lords. Mil. Ha! who cries murder? Phil. As y' are a gentleman, now be true to me. Abs. Sir! Ven. Sister! Ver. My shame! art thou there? Ven. O sister, can it be A prince's blood should stain that white hand? Ambo. Hear us. Ant. No, no, no, hear me: 'twas I cried murder; Because I have found them both stain'd with the deed They would have throttled me. Lor. Hear us: by all—— Mil. Upon your lives, be silent. Speak on, sir: Had they both hands in our son's blood? Ant. Two hands apiece, sir. I have sifted it: they both have kill'd the prince; But this is the chief murderer. Please you, give me audience; Ye shall wonder at the manner how they kill'd him. Mil. Silence! Ant. He came first to this woman, and (truth's truth) He would have lain with her. Mil. Her own confession. Ant. Nay, good your grace. Mil. We are silent. Ant. Coming to seize upon her, with the first blow She struck his base intent so brave a buffet, That there it bled to death. She said, his horse Would teach him better manners: there he died once. Ver. What does this fellow talk? Abs. I understand him. Ant. He met her next i' the wood, where he was found dead: Then he came noblier up to her, and told her Marriage was his intent; but she as nobly (Belike, to let him know she was married) Told him, in an intelligible denial, There the prince died again. Lod. There's twice; beware the third time. Ant. The third time, he came here to them both in prison, Brought a pistol with him, would have forc'd her again; But had ye seen how fairly then she slew him, You would have shot applauses from your eyes: O, she came up so bravely to that prince Hot potent Lust (for she slew no prince else), With such a valiant discipline she destroy'd That debosh'd So bravely too fetch'd off, that (to conclude) Betwixt them they this wonder did contrive, They kill'd the prince, but kept your son alive. [Discovers himself. Mil. Antonio! Omnes. The prince! Ven. Come home, my sister, to my heart. Ver. And now Lorenzo is again my belov'd kinsman. Ant. O sir, here dwells virtue epitomis'd, Even to an abstract, and yet that so large 'Twill swell a book in folio. Lod. She swells beyond my wife then: A pocket-book, bound in decimo sexto, Will hold her virtues, and as much spare paper left As will furnish five tobacco-shops. Mil. But here's the wonder; who is it was slain In your apparel? Phil. I will give them all the slip. [Offers to go. Ant. Here's a gentleman of Ferrara—— Phil. As you are noble—— Ant. That saw them fight: it was the slave was slain, sir, I took before Palermo: he that kill'd him, Took him but for a gentleman his equal; And as this eye-witness says, he in my apparel Did kick the t'other first. Phil. Nay, upon my life, sir, He in your apparel gave the first kick: I saw them fight, And I dare swear the t'other honest gentleman Little thought he had slain anything like the prince, For I heard him swear, but half an hour before, He never saw your grace. Mil. Then he kill'd him fairly? Phil. Upon my life, my lord. Ven. T'other had but his merit then: who dies And seeks his death, seldom wets others' eyes. Ant. Let this persuade you: I believe you noble. I have kept my word with you. Phil. You have outdone me, sir, In this brave exercise of honour: but let me, In mine own person, thank you. Omnes. Philippo! Phil. Unwittingly I did an ill—as't happened, To a good end: that slave I for you kill'd Wanted but time to kill you: read that paper, Which I found with him, I thinking by accident You had intercepted it. We all have happily Been well deceived; you are noble, just, and true; My hate was at your clothes, my heart at you. Ver. An accident more strange hath seldom happen'd. Lor. Philippo, my best friend, 'twixt shame and love, Here let me lay thee now for ever. Abs. Heaven Hath now plan'd all our rough woes smooth and even. Mil. At court [a] large relation in apt form Shall tender pass'd proceedings; but to distinguish, Excellent lady, your unparallel'd praises From those but seem, let this serve: bad women Are nature's clouds, eclipsing her fair shine: The good, all-gracious, saint-like and divine. [Exeunt Omnes. "The immortality of my fame is the white I shoot at;" in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Four [Plays in One" (Dyce's edit.), ii. 512]— "And let your thoughts flee higher; aim them right, Sir, you may hit, you have the fairest white;" in Lyly's "Euphues and his England," 1582—"Vertue is the white we shoot at, not vanitie" (p. 11). Again, "He glaunced from the marke Euphues shot at, and hit at last the white which Philautus set up" (p. 18). Again, "An archer saye you, is to be knowen by his aime, not by his arrowe: but your aime is so ill, that if you knewe howe farre wide from the white your shaft sticketh, you would hereafter rather breake your bowe then bend it."—Ibid. 57. "I in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him, where he struck: being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war." "As when to them who sail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past Mozambique, off at sea north-east winds blow Sabean odours from the spicy shore Of Araby the blest: with such delay Well pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league Cheer'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles." |
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