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113
SCENE IV.
An Ante-Room in the Castle. Enter Pulti.Pulti.
(Sings.)
With each grain of Heaven's goodness,
I will mix one of woodness,
And ten solid grains of pure evil;
Do whatever you can,
You must bolt all, my man,
Or starve, quoth to Adam the devil.
(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
Your fiendish ditty is a guide, at least.
Well met! Your news?
Pul.
I barely saved my time.
The guests are down, and I am sent to seek you.
Sal.
Is the cup drugged?
Pul.
I mixed the powders in,
And poured the wine around, ere I came off.
Sal.
Two powders?
Pul.
Two.
Sal.
Victoria! The one
Shall rack him shrewdly, with a piercing colic,
Until the opiate act; when he will fall,
Upon a sudden, in a torpid stupor,
Which will so balance between life and death,
That but a feather's weight might turn the beam,
And land him in eternity.
Pul.
It might?
114
I'll leap into the balance bodily.
Sal.
No, Pulti; I 've not closed with Marsio.
To-morrow I must buy the Marquis' debts,
On my own terms; death would upset my bargain.
Pul.
Here 's Marsio's poison.
[Gives the vial.]
Sal.
Precious, precious vial!
You hold the happiness of two dear hearts
Pent in your narrow compass!
Pul.
Is that all?
Methinks it comes to little, when 't is brought
Down to a liquid form. Had I believed
A lover's prophecies upon this point,
I 'd have been fool enough to build an ark,
Against a second deluge. What a close
To all your rhapsodies! Here 's a scant bath
For a foul fly!
Sal.
Enough to drown your wit.
Pul.
If that 's the substance of love's happiness,
Pray trust it to my handling. I will bear it,
As friars do rare relics, through the land,
To strengthen bachelors in their religion.
Sal.
Prodigious atheist!
Pul.
Holy maniac!
Now, which is better, a sound infidel,
Or a cracked devotee? Let Heaven decide.
Sal.
Back to your master, knave! his fellowship
Sorts with your feelings.
Pul.
'T is a doleful thing,
That our gay world can yield a healthy man
No company but lunatics or rogues:
The wise are villains, and the honest fools.
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To find one modest flower in all the crop!
Sal.
I prophecy a cardinal's cap for you,
If you will preach thus in the market-place.
I must be off. O, Pulti, Pulti, Pulti,
If ever man loved man, I dote on you!
[Exeunt.]
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