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Scæna. 3.
Enter a Frier, after him a funerall in white, and bearers in white, after them Borgias; then the two Dukes, after them the Senate. &c.A solemne march.
Bor.
Set downe that heauy load of misery,
O would the easing you, might ease my heart!
The grauity of age to let some teares
Fall at thy funerall: true relique of that loue
I did inherit from thy fathers mouth,
When to my charge he left his heire and Dukedome
In thee I am depriu'd of all that honour
I should haue purchac'd by that thankefull care
Was due vnto thy fathers memory:
Did not my griefe load all my powers of speech,
Oh I could spend my age in commenting
Of those true vertues dyed with him and thee,
But sorrow shuts my brest: Frier, thine office.
Fry.
By that great power is giuen to mee
The gates of heauen I ope to thee,
When mongst the Angels thou shalt sing
The song of Saints before a King,
That sits for euer on his throane,
And giueth light to euery one:
To him thy soule we doe bequeath,
Thy body to the earth beneath:
And so we close thy tombe againe,
And pray thy soule be free from paine.
Uen.
Looke from thy holy mansion sacred maid
And see how prostrate I adore thy blisse:
These armes in hope of conquest of thy loue
That rould themselues in steele, shall claspe the aire,
And in their empty foldings liue still barren
Of all the comfort my youths hope did promise.
And since thy death takes my loues ioy from me,
Ile die a virgin-Saint and liue with thee.
Fer.
I cannot vent my brest in loue sicke tearmes,
Nor call to record all the gods of loue
For my integrity: nor prostitute,
An oyly passion curiously composd
Of riming numbers at my mistres hearse:
Or tell her dead truncke my true loue in vearse:
To say I loud her is Ferraraes pride.
Borg.
My honour, and that weake abillity
Our state affoords, to doe your graces seruice,
Lies at your princely feete, for this your loue
Done to the dead: now is Iulia shut
For euer from your eyes: saue that she liues
Like a pure relique of some holy Saint,
Shrind in our breasts for euer: let me now renew
My first request, to sup with vs to night,
A ceremony due at funerals.
So shall you double honour vnto me,
In doing double honour vnto her.
Ven.
Ile do all honour both to her and you.
Ferr.
Ile breake no custome.
Borg.
I humbly thanke your graces, please you lead?
Heere liues a lasting memory of the dead.
Exeunt.
A solemne marth.
Manet Borgias
Thus far my pioning pollicies run euen,
And leuell with my aymes: Iulia liues,
And in her hearse Timoclea my wife,
Deludes the credulous Dukes: poysoned last night
By Mulleasses, to make way for me,
To marry Iulia my brothers daughter,
For which the Cardinall of Aniou my kinsman
Sollicites daily with his holinesse,
For dispensation with our bloods alliance:
As for these weake men, whose pursuits in loue,
Dies with my strong auerring of her death,
I can commaund their liues: and then maintaine
My actions with the sword: for which the Turke
By Mulleasses made vnto my purpose,
Offers me forty thousand Ianisaries
To be my guard, gainst forraigne outrages:
And more: hee'le make me king of Italy,
And land his force on this side Christendome
And I will do it: on my faith to God
And loyalty I owe vnto the starres,
Should there depend all Europe and the states
Christened thereon: Ide sinke them all,
To gaine those ends I haue proposd my aimes,
Religion (thou that ridst the backes of Slaues
Into weake mindes insinuating feare
And superstitious cowardnesse) thou robst
Man of his chiefe blisse by bewitching reason.
Nature at these my browes bend: thy mysteries
Wrought by thine owne hands in our actiue braines,
Giue vs the vse of good: thou art my God,
If what I haue of thee, or wit or art,
Or Serpent sliding through the mindes of men,
Cunning confusion of all obstacles,
Be they my childrens liues, my deerest friends
May gaine me what I wish, I stoope at thy renowne
And thinke al's vacuum aboue a crowne,
For they that haue the soueraignty of things,
Do know no God at all, are none but Kings.
Exit.
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