 | Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Enter Orsino and Bellamira in Mourning.Orsino.
Where didst thou get the daring thus to move me?
By thy dead Mothers shrowd, not the first Night,
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Was I so hot with Love as now with rage,
Thou Young and Virgin Witch, thou new-found Fury?
Bella.
Ah, Sir! for I am afraid to call you Father,
Give me my Death: give to these trembling breasts
A thousand wounds; or cut me Limb from Limb;
But do not look so dreadfully upon me—
Nor blast me with such sounds. Oh pity me!
There's not one fatal sentence, one dread VVord,
But runs like Iron through my freezing blood.
VVhat have I done? Ah, what is my offence?
And tell me how, which way I shall atone you?
Orsin.
O, thou vile wretch! what is thy offence?
Dost thou not know it? Exquisite dissembler!
Thou leading Sorc'ress! Hecat of thy Sex!
Subtlest of all thy kind, that ever rowld
Their false deluding eyes, and in their Glasses
Conjur'd for looks to cheat the simple world!
But to take all evasion from thy guilt,
Did I not charge thee, as thou fear'st my curse,
This very Morning to adorn thy self
As one, whom the great Duke intends to honour
By making thee his Bride?
Bell.
Alas! you did;
And I am come, Oh Heaven! and all you Powers
That pity womans weakness, I am come
My Lord as you commanded; and have vow'd,
Tho Death atends my Nuptials, to obey you.
Orsin.
Thou ly'st even in thy heart, thou know'st thou ly'st,
Thou hast maliciously, most grosly fail'd
In this obedience: Say, declare, haste, answer,
Thou most ungrateful wretch; Ah, how unlike
Thy meek, thy Perfect bright and blessed Mother,
Is this a habit for a glorious Bride?
Dost thou thus meet the generous Borgia?
I know thy awkard Heart; thou meanst by this
To tell the VVorld, thou dost not like thy Husband,
And dash him at the Altar: but by Heav'n,
Whither thou, Murdress, now art sending me,
This shall not serve thy purpose: In this dress
That blasts my eyes and strikes my Soul with sadness,
I'll see the Priest for ever make you one.
Bellam.
Ah! how have I deserv'd this cruel usage?
Did ever Daughter yet obey like me?
Not she who in the Dungeon fed her Father
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Sav'd him from Death, can match my rigorous Vertue;
For I have done much more: torn off my Breasts,
My Breasts, my very Heart, and flung it from me,
To feed the Tyrant Duty with my blood.
Orsin.
Call'st thou the lawful Imposition of
A careful Father, that intends thee honour,
Tyrannical and bloody? Rage resume me;
Here, seest thou this? O would the gallant Borgia
Could fling thee from his Soul, as I from mine,
For 'tis respect to him that saves thy life;
Else by the Feaver that quite burns me up,
I'd ponyard thee, till all thy Robes were Crimson:
Yet since thou hast the Impudence to brave me,
And call thy Father Tyrant to his face,
I that have foster'd thee even from the Womb,
And bred thee in my Bosom, hear and tremble;
For I will curse thee till thy frighted Soul
Runs mad with horrour, till thy Mother starts
From her cold Monument, to beg me cease,
Though all in vain.
Bellam.
I cast me at your feet;
I'm all Obedience: See, Sir,—see me here
Grovelling upon the Earth.
Orsin.
Curs'd be the Night,
Ten thousand Curses on that fatal hour,
When my great Spirit trifled with thy Mother
For the Production of so false a Joy!
Bellam.
O horrid blasting breath!
Orsin.
When I am dead,
My troubled Ghost shall nightly haunt thy Dreams.
Bellam.
Ah, hold—I kiss your feet, and hug your knees.
Orsin.
Though in thy Husbands Arms, I'll draw the Curtains,
And stare thee into Frenzy; and thy Lord
I'll Charm so fast, thy shrieks shall not awake him.
Bellam.
Yet Sir, forbear; tread on me, trample me.
Orsin.
And all the day, when other Spirits sleep,
I'll follow thee with groans, and curse thee still:
Nay, when thou seek'st for company to scape me,
I'll make thee scream. See there his Spirit stands.
Bellam.
Hear him not Heav'n!
Orsin.
After thy first imbrace,
May thy Lord loath thee; swear thou art no Virgin,
And cast thee off as a most leud Adulteress.
Bellam.
If there be Saints or Angels: Oh I charge you—
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Or if thy Husband should by chance retain thee,
Heart-burnings, Jealousies incite him still
To plague thee with a Thousand Hells on Earth,
And after end thee in some horrid manner.
Bellam.
Ponyard me as you promis'd Sir! Oh stab me!
Orsin.
Eternal Barrenness shut up thy Womb;
If ought that's humane chance to raise thy hopes,
May it be monstrous at the curst Production,
An after birth, or some abhorr'd Conception.
Enter Duke of Gandia in Mourning.
Bellam.
Y'have said enough! my heart, my spirits fail me,
And I have now my wish without a Dagger.
Orsin.
What now? another Mourner? Hell and Furies!
They both have plotted to undo my Honour.
Well—Duke of Gandia—but I'll call the Bridegroom.
Gand.
Ha! how's this? the beauteous Bellamira
Upon the Earth. Help, help—my Lord, she's cold,
Your Daughter Swoons.—
Orsin.
I care not, let her perish;
And thou, who hast seduc'd her, perish with her:
Swoon with her, sink with her: Die both, and both be damn'd.
[Ex. Orsino.
Gand.
Wake Bellamira from this sleep of Death:
Life of Palante's life! give me a word;
See thou art safe, clasp'd in thy Gandia's Arms,
Palante holds thee. Say, what Murderer
Offer'd this cruelty, and I'll revenge thee!
Bellam.
Where am I? ha! loose, loose me from your arms;
Stand off; fly from me; fly, Palante, fly!
For we must never, never meet agen:
The Poles may sooner joyn: O I am lost,
By an inexorable Father ruin'd;
Cursed, blasted; and for thee, unhappy Prince,
Thou hast undone me, though not by thy will;
For sure thou lov'st the wretched Bellamira:
Yet by the consequence of this affection,
Thou hast destroy'd my peace of mind for ever:
Thou hast been ruinous and mortal to me!
As Robbers, Ravishers, or Murderers!
Therefore be gone! fly from my Eyes for ever,
And never let me see Palante more.
Gand.
I go for ever from you, as you charge me,
And for that purpose I did hither come;
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I hop'd at least, that when I parted from you,
And bid you everlastingly farewel,
I hop'd; but oh those flattering hopes were vain!
That gentle Bellamira should have sigh'd
Or dropt a tear, when I would take my leave
And never see her more.
Bellam.
O Cruelty!
You rend the Plaister from the bleeding wound.
Gand.
An Elder Brother calls you to his Bed,
And you perhaps will not be ravish'd thither:
O Bellamira! I had once those Vows
Which thy frail heart does now resign to Borgia.
But I have staid too long: Farewel for ever;
When I am gone, and thou for many years
Enjoy'st the Change thy Father forc'd thee to,
(For sure I cannot think it all thy doing!)
If happy Cæsar Borgia chance to fold thee
More closely in his arms then was his Custom;
Say to thy heart with a relenting thought,
Thus, if your Fates had pleas'd, the wretched Gandia
Would thus have lov'd me. But no more farewel.
You're pleas'd to banish me—and—I'll obey.
Exiturns.
Bell.
Come back! come back! you shall not leave me thus:
Let Fathers Curse, and Jealous Husbands Rage,
Love has a force that can surmount the World.
Enter Borgia.
If then 'tis destin'd that you must be gone,
And leave me to the Arms of Cruel Borgia—
Borg.
Ha! but observe: there may be more in this.
Bell.
If we two Lovers, whom for tenderness
The World can never match, must part for ever—
Gand.
O, that for ever!
Borg.
It's Apparition all;
By Heav'n, a Dream; I swear, a very Dream.
Bell.
Yet take, O take this dying farewel with thee:
And whomsoe're thy Passion shall Espouse,
Remember! O Remember this, and leave me:
No Man was ever so by Woman lov'd,
As thou Palante art by Bellamira.
Gand.
Stop there; for to go on will give me Death.
O! thou hast utter'd Sounds of such a strain
As Nature cannot bear: like utmost Musick,
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No more! for by my glimmering joys, I fear
Thou'lt sing my soul to Everlasting Sleep!
Borg.
Then let me wake you.
Bell.
O Heav'ns! we are undone!
Borg.
Start not, nor weep not! beauteous Bellamira!
For there is nothing toward you, but well;
Fortune her self now smiles on your design,
And Heav'n and Earth conspire to make you happy:
These Mourning Habits on your Wedding Day,
Had chance not guided me to hear your Loves,
Would have betray'd the secret—
Gand.
O Brother! what must I expect? I know not
Whether I ought to hope or fear.
Borg.
Hope all:
For curst is he that parts whom Heav'n has joyn'd:
I stand convinc'd that Love has made you one;
And may those Chaster Fires that warm your hearts,
Vie with the Stars for Immortality—
Gand.
Speak it again, again confirm this goodness,
For one so Noble sure this World contains not:
O! 'tis too little but to name him Noble,
For such a Soul aspires above the Clouds;
So great, Ethereal, and so God-like fram'd,
He must look down on Kings; such vast compassion,
Such an unheard magnificence of Mercy
As we must both adore: Kneel, Bellamira,
For 'tis a God we talk with.
Borg.
O you must not.
Methinks fair Bellamira, who still answers
With the accustom'd Language of her Tears,
Methinks you should have told me all this while,
Your Beauties were not doom'd for Cæsar Borgia.
'Tis true, I often fear'd by your reserv'dness,
Your Heart must be ingag'd—Or thou, Palente,
Had'st thou but told me when I woo'd her first,
How many sighs and sorrows hadst thou sav'd me!
I would not then have launch'd, but yielded up
The Noble Fraight, this more than Indian Treasure,
And given thee all my interest in her Father.
Gand.
Alas! I fear'd!
Borg.
I hold you Sir excus'd:
May you be happy as your Souls can wish;
But I must beg you from this place retire
For your own interest; Orsino here
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Upon this day, allotted for my Marriage,
Unfit to break the business of your Loves.
Yet doubt not, O most happy lovely Pair,
But Care and Time shall perfect all your Wishes.
Gand.
Give me your Arms: I had design'd this Morning.
Made desperate with my griefs, t'acquaint your Ear
With all the progress of my ruin'd passion:
I thought that you would storm, and use me ill,
And had design'd I know not what to forfeit
My life, rather than lose my Bellamira:
But you have so prevented me—
Borg.
No more.
How, sairest Bellamira! not one word?
Am I ordain'd the Proxy of your Love,
Without the Breath of thanks?
Bell.
The bounteous Heav'ns
Rain on your head whole Deluges of mercies,
For this great goodness! Hear me, oh ye Powers,
Hear me upon my knees; where-e're he goes,
Guard him with blessings! give him his own wishes:
If to the Wars he pass, Renown attend him,
And growing Conquest dwell upon his Arms;
Let him attain by a long course of Valour,
And gallant acts, to the old Roman Greatness;
And when at last in Triumph he returns,
May all the sighing Virgins strow his way,
And with new Garlands Crown his coming Glory.
[Ex. with Gandia.
Enter Machiavel.
Mach.
Something's discover'd, and I guess the business!
My Lord, you're wanted, and the beauteous Bride.
Borg.
I charge thee name her not upon thy life.
Here, tear, tear off these unbecoming Garments,
Get me my Horse, and bid my Arms be ready;
Yes, Machiavel, with to morrows dawn,
Thou shalt behold me in another Dress,
Breathing Defiance to these softer Wars.
Mach.
But why, Sir! why? how comes this sudden change?
Why have you charg'd me that I should not speak
Of Bellamira?
Borg.
Cruel Machiavel!
Why dost thou bring the fatal Charmer back,
Whom I would drive for ever from my Soul?
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This wondrous alteration of your humour,
Must sure arise from some as wondrous cause.
Have you discover'd ought?
Borg.
All, all's discover'd;
And such an over sight in thee; but where,
Where now is thy profound Sagacity?
Where all thy Depositions, Promises,
Warrants, Ingagements that she should be mine;
Chastly, religiously, devoutly mine?
Mach.
And is she not?
Borg.
By Heav'n quite opposite:
All that my boding heart presag'd to thee
Before, has happen'd; happen'd in such manner,
As quite our went my own Imagination.
Mach.
Who e're he is that has supplanted you,
By your just rage he was a secret Villain,
The closest Traytor that e're plotted mischief,
And justly has deserv'd the stab you gave him.
Borg.
How, Machiavel? ha, didst thou talk of stabbing?
Mach.
I neither think, nor know what's your intention,
But that's your Countries Custom in such cases:
Besides, Sir, when I did discourse you last,
You fell into Convulsions of Despair,
With mentioning the very name of Rival,
And thunder'd out whole Volleys of revenge.
Borg.
True Machiavel: but could not think my Rival
Should prove my Brother.
Mach.
Ha!
Borg.
Raise, raise me Heav'n,
Some other Man that dares to take her from me,
To snatch the only Beauty I can love,
And at the Altar too, from my imbraces;
If I not end him, though he were Imperial,
Ev'n in the middle of his Guards—
Mach.
Your Brother!
And have you Confirmation that she loves him?
Borg.
Why dost thou wonder? I both saw and heard;
Heard all his Vows, and her most passionate Answers:
She loves him: Yes, these cursed Remembrances,
These eyes have seen it. O! she dotes on him,
Feeds on his looks—eyes him, as pregnant Women
Gaze at the precious thing their Souls are set on.
Mach.
And you perhaps will bear it from a Brother
With all the meekness of an Anchorite,
A man of quite another World! you'd best
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The Heir of all, sole Darling of the Pope.
Borg.
'Tis certain, that I seem'd to all appearance
Mild and relenting; begg'd 'em leave me here,
That I might think—
Mach.
Think! by your Holy Father,
You have no blood, no soul, nor spirit left!
The Genius of your House must blush at this;
A Brother! why, so much the more a Villain.
Borg.
O Machiavel!
Mach.
O Conscientious Borgia!
By all that's great, it is in him flat Incest;
There's for your Conscience, if you will have Conscience,
She was betroth'd yours by her Father's Will,
Publish'd to the World, and what else makes a Marriage?
And for a Brother thus to undermine you,
And carry it too? Are you Italian born?
Begot by one? O, make it not a doubt,
I grieve, I groan, I am mad to see you thus!
What, to be made the talk, the jeer of Rome,
As once you were at Paris by Charlotta:
No—I'll revenge thee! cold as thou art and dead!
And may this Steel be sheath'd in Machiavel,
If that the treacherous Duke of Gandia scape me.
[Exiturns.
Borg.
Come back, I say; for what is to be done,
I'll act my self. Where was I? or where am I?
No Machiavel, thou know'st 'tis not my Conscience
That lets the Villain live: I think thou hast heard
The fatal Jars w'have had about my Sister:
For I remember, being in her Bath,
And by her Women told we were at words,
She ran in haste half naked to the Pope,
Who came to part the fray; and swore in fury,
With horrid Imprecations, who-e're fell
By th'others hand, he never would have mercy
On the Surviver. This, my Machiavel,
Is Borgia's Conscience—For to do a murder,
And not be safe, is Drunkards policy.
Mach.
What then is your intent?
Borg.
To follow Nature:
For so do Flames that burn, and Seas that drown;
Yes, Machiavel, and care not what comes on't:
So when security, and black occasion
Point me to death, I will be rough as those,
And blood him, till he changes to a Ghost:
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I'll find a way to rack him.
Mach.
Ha! you mean—
To take again your beauteous Prize; that is,
The lovely Bellamira still retains
Some holds about your heart.
Borg.
O, 'tis confess'd;
And howsoe're my Tongue has plaid the Braggart,
She Reigns more fully in my Soul than ever:
She Garrisons my Breast, and Mans against me
Even my own Rebel thoughts, with thousand Graces,
Ten thousand Charms, and new discover'd Beauties.
O! hadst thou seen her when she lately blest me,
What tears, what looks, and languishings she darted;
Love bath'd himself in the distilling Balm:
And oh the subtle God has made his entrance
Quite through my heart; he shouts and triumphs too,
And all his Cry is Death, or Bellamira.
Mach.
Why! this is like the Spirit of your Father.
You bring his graceful vigour just before me,
Just, just as first he wore the triple Crown,
Just so he walk'd, just with that fiery Movement;
So sparkled too his eyes! so glow'd his Cheeks.
Nor fear Palente, when she's in your Arms,
When she perceives the fervour of your passion
Panting upon her naked Breasts for Mercy.
Borg.
Sighing, as if my very Soul would burst;
And gasping, Machiavel, as if Deaths pangs were on me.
Mach.
Now stealing to her Lips, dissolv'd in Tears,
And pressing close, but softly to her side;
Whispering, O why, why, gentle Bellamira!
Then with a sudden start let loose your love;
Grasp her as if you could no longer bear it;
Clasp her all Night, and stifle her with Kisses:
O, there are Thousand ways!
Borg.
Ten Thousand Thousand;
Millions, and infinite, yet add to those,
I'll try 'em all; nor shall a drop of mercy
Fall from my Eyes, though I beheld Palante
Dead at her Door. O expectation burns me!
O Bellamira! heart! how she does inflame me?
Mach.
Then there's no need of warlike preparations?
Borg.
Talk no more of War, for now my Theme's all Love:
The War like Winter vanishes; 'tis gone,
And Bellamira with eternal Spring,
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Drops like a Cherubin in smiles before me.
Mach.
Oh, that the World could but behold you thus!
That Bellamira saw you in this height
Of dazling Passion, and becoming Fury!
Borg.
Thus, to a glorious Coast, through Tempests hurl'd,
We sail like him who sought the Indian World.
'Tis more; 'tis Paradise I go to prove,
And Bellamira is the Land of Love:
I have her in my view; and hark, she talks,
And see, about, like the first Maid she walks:
Fair as the Day when first the World began;
And I am doom'd to be the happy man.
[Exeunt.
| Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth | |