 | Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Enter Ascanio and Alonzo.Alonz.
My Lord, this is an Act so newly horrid,
So ghastly a contrivance of Revenge,
That Fiends themselves would start at the Proposal.
I to do this; I, who have bred him up!
Oh Seraphino! Nurs'd thee in my Bosom,
To gash thy Cheeks, and tear out both thy Eyes!
Ascan.
The sums of Gold are order'd to be paid;
Half on your bare consent: on Execution
The whole. Alonzo! thou hast no compassion
When Interest comes in play: Don't I know,
At the Command of Machiavel, or Borgia,
Thou would'st not stick to poyson ev'n the Pope?
Come, come, dissemble not thy Occupation,
Murder's thy Trade, and Death thy Livelihood;
Therefore perform this act of spritely Vengeance,
And I'll Create thee Noble—
Alonz.
'Tis sure, e're long, when I have serv'd their turn,
They will end me too, for fear of talking;
Therefore, my Lord, how-e're my Conscience stings me,
For 'tis most true, I love the Innocent Boy;
Send home the Gold—
Ascan.
Thou shalt along with me;
I will not send, but pay it thee in hand,
Full Twenty Thousand Crowns—Why, what a sum is that?
Full Twenty Thousand Crowns!
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Monks, Fryers, Jesuites, that would kill their Fathers,
Ravish their Mothers, eat their Brothers and Sisters,
For half the sum: what, twenty thousand Crowns!
Away, away! Come, come, pull out his eyes,
And make a Cupid of the little Bastard.
I swear thou shalt; what, twenty thousand Crowns!
Alonz.
My Lord, I am Charm'd.
Enter Machiavel and Adorna.
Ascan.
My good Lord Machiavel.
Mach.
My Noble Lord,
The humblest of your Servants.—
Ex.
Now, my Adorna, now the time is coming,
When thou shalt Rival ev'n the Queen of Love;
For, by my life, a Bridegroom like Palante
Might match an Empress—But he's thine; no more.
I've sworn he's thine: This day, that gives his Brother
Thy beautious Cousin, is the Blest Fore-runner
Of my Adorna's certain happiness.
Ador.
Heav'n only knows the issue of my Fate;
But did not love and languishing desire
Transport me from my self, I should endeavour
To help the poor desparing Bellamira.
Not many hours ago she ran upon me
With Extasies, even crying out for joy,
In spite of Fate, Palante shall be mine;
Then told me all that you discourst but now:
When on that minute cruel Borgia entr'd
With old Orsino, who commanded her,
I'th'mid'st of prayers and tears, and shrinking sorrows,
Strait to attend her Husband to the Temple.
Mach.
Excellent! And how bears Palante this?
Adorn.
So much the worse, because quite unexpected
And while I told it in most moving terms,
He struck his Breast, and cast his eyes to Heav'n,
Enquir'd for you; then talkt of blood, and vanish'd.
Mach.
I have been ever since I came to Rome
A Confident to both: I like the Method,
The Machine moves exactly to my mind,
Sails like a Ship well ballast through the Air,
And ploughs the rising mischiefs clear before me.
I've heard thee often talk of pretty Letters
That past between Palante and thy Cousin.
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I have 'em all in keeping, by her order.
Mach.
Let me peruse 'em.
Adorn.
Will you be secret then?
Mach.
Away, and fear not, they shall make thy Fortune:
Soon as the Marriage Rites are past, we'll meet.
Ex. Adorna.
But lo, they come! The Duke of Gandia frowns;
I fear my Cæsar, and must watch their clashing.
Scene draws, and discovers the Progress of a stately Marriage; Ascanio, Adrian, Enna, Cardinals, going before, Orsino following: Bellamira supported by two Virgins in White: Borgia follow'd by Vitellozzo, Alonzo, &c.
Gand.
Sir, I must speak with you.
Borg.
'Tis inconvenient.
Gand.
'Tis not our first of Jars. Remember Lucrece,
Our Sister Lucrece, and be then parswaded
Necessity requires yourea
Borg.
For what?
Gand.
if you dare walk aside with me, I'll tell you.
Borg.
After the Priest.—
Gand.
No Sir—before the Priest—
Fate hovers near us; you shall give me hearing.
Borg.
What Boy! how say'st thou; shall!—
Gand.
Yes Sir, you shall.
Borg.
No more; for fear we should be over-heard:
I'll instantly return upon my Honour:
Let me but wait Orsino to the Gate,
And I'll attend thee; on my word I will—
The Priest shall wait till thou have satisfaction.
Ex. all but Mach. and Gand.
Mach.
What have you said, my Lord?
Gand.
Forebear to know;
I think thou lov'st me, yet a proof were well;
And since occasion now demands a tryal,
Refuse not what my Friendship shall enjoyn thee.
Mach.
'Tis granted, though the consequence be death.
Gand.
Begon, this moment leave me to my self,
Mach.
I apprehend: Let me imbrace you.
Why shall I leave you? but my word's ingag'd;
Call all those pow'rful provocations up,
Your wrongs, your most ignoble injuries,
To steel your arm, and dye your Victory
In blood: I go—because you grow impatient.
No more, but Conquest, Death, or Bellamira—
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Though skill'd and gallant, yet may meet his Death,
And that I must prevent, for I'll allow no stroke
To Chance, though my undaunted Hero dares all
That Man can dare—
Ex. Mach.
Gand.
Why comes he not?
I know he's brave, Renown'd in Foreign Wars,
And to his skill in Arms has such a Courage,
As makes a rash man run upon his ruine:
Yet in his height of fury I can dare him,
My blood defies him mortally to death.
Yes Machiavel, I'll take thy fatal counsel;
The word is Conquest, Death, or Bellamira.
Enter Borgia.
Borg.
So Sir, you see I have obey'd your Summons;
You must be satisfi'd, though Beauty stays,
Though the Bride stays, though Bellamira stays:
That is, tho Heav'n with all its waiting glories
Stops at your call, and stands to give you hearing.
Gand.
Y'have us'd me basely.
Borg.
No.
Gand.
I say you have,
Without a provocation.
Borg.
That were base
Indeed: when unprovok'd I do a wrong,
May I, when justly urg'd, want due revenge.
Gand.
Y'have falsifi'd your word, betray'd me basely,
Betray'd a Brother: O my Stars, a Brother!
That would have burst through all the bars of death,
And yeilded all things to you, but his Love.
O, foolish eyes! but these are your last tears,
And I must mend your course with blood.
Borg.
He weeps!
Was ever seen Hypocrisie like this?
O thou young impudent and blooming lyar,
Who, like our Curtezans. are early practis'd,
And in their Nonage taught the Arts of Vice.
But I forgo my temper—Is this all?
You know I am in haste, and cannot brook
A longer Conference.
Gand.
I know you cannot,
But I shall force you: yes, thou Tyrant Brother,
Thou that art fallen from all the height of glory,
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I will revenge the honour the hast lost:
Nor shalt thou pass to Bellamira's Arms,
Till through my heart thou cutt'st thy horrid way.
Draw then—
Borg.
I will not.
Gand.
By Revenge and Fury
Thou shalt not pass but on my Rapiers point.
Borg.
Think not, thou young Practitioner in Arms,
That all thy force, thou levell'd at me naked,
Should stop me, if I once resolv'd my way:
But I am calm; and wish thee, for thy safety,
To let me pass. Thou talk'st awhile ago
Of Lucrece—but no more of that—my Father,
O, fear'd I not his Thunder which so oft
Has menac'd me if e're I rose against thee,
Long, long e're this, had'st thou been dust; even now
For that abuse which late thou gav'st my ear,
For that abhorr'd Conception of my Sister,
For that damn'd mention, by the lowest Hell,
And by the burning Friends, thou should'st be Ashes.
Gand.
Blush not, nor purse thy threatning Brow, but draw
And dare not to despise the weakest arm
That trickles with Justice. Yes, upon thy breast
Elate, and haughty as thou carriest it,
I doubt not but my Sword shall write thee Traytor.
Borg.
No more: O that I had
Some one Renown'd, and winter'd as my self,
T'encounter like an Oak the rooting Storm!
But thou art weak, and to the Earth wilt bend,
With my least blast thy Head of Blossoms down:
If by thy hand I fall (as who e're div'd
So deep in Fate, but sometimes was deceiv'd?)
I do bequeath thee more than all my Dukedoms,
Far more indeed than Worlds, my beauteous Bride;
But if I conquer thee, and shew the mercy,
Never love more; nor after I am marri'd,
Dare for thy Soul to speak of Bellamira.
Gand.
I thank thee, and accept the terms with Joy,
Which blood must ratifie: And here I swear,
If vanquish'd by thy Arm (though Death, I hope,
Will, more than Oath, confirm the fatal bargain)
For ever to renounce all Claim, and yield
By my Eternal absence Bellamira.
Borg.
Come on then: And let Love and Glory steell
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Thy whole life's Joy, or worse than Death, Despair;
I would not win such Beauty without Blood:
But as the brave Gonsalvo, being shot,
Mov'd not at all, nor chang'd his mighty Look;
As if the Gallantry of such demeanour
Could charm coy Victory to raise the Seige:
So would I with my blood distilling down,
Answering her tears, lead Bellamira on,
And woo her at the Altar with my wounds.
Gand.
No more.
Borg.
Agreed. The word is Bellamira.—
Fight, Gandia is wounded.
Hold, hold Palante, for thou bleed st.
Gand.
A scratch.
Borg.
My Father crys out, save him on thy life.
Fight again. Borgia is wounded on the Arm, but disarms Gandia.
Gand.
Guard well thy life.
Enter Machiavel.
Mach.
What means this noise of Arms?
Why these Swords drawn? what now, my Lords,
Both wounded?
Borgia throws Gandia his Sword.
By Heav'n, I swear, you shall proceed no further.
Borg.
'Tis now too late to tell thee how we quarrell'd,
Look to his wound: soon as the Cure's perform'd,
I'll serve the Duke of Gandia with my Fortune,
But far from Rome; for he has agreed
Never to see my Bellamira more.
For me—I'll to the Temple.
Mach.
My Lord, you bleed.
Borg.
The Skin's but rac'd:
Would it were deep in the most mortal part,
So Bellamira, when the blood gush'd forth,
Would sink upon my breast, and swear she lov'd me.
But that's too much to hope; what e're is doom'd,
I swear this night to grasp the conquer'd Prize:
Yes, yes, Palante, hear, and fly for ever;
All the white World of Bellamira's Beauty
This Night I'll travel o're, to feast my Love;
The Little Glutton shall be gorg'd with Revels,
He shall be drunk with spirits of delight;
With all that amorous wishes can inspire,
And all the Liberties of loose desire.
[Exit.
Gand.
I'll after him, and at the Altar end him.
Was't not enough to wound and vanquish me,
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I know not what; for he is generous,
And nobly merits what his valour won:
Yes, happy Borgia, I will keep my word;
And, since thus lost to all that I held dear,
Abandon this loath'd World.
Mach.
You must retire.
Gand.
I will devote the sad remains of life
To the blest Company of holy men!
Learn Contemplation, and the dregs of life
Purg'd off, taste clearer and more sprightly joys,
Partake their transports in the brightest Visions,
See opening Heav'ns, and the descending Gods:
Then as I view the dazling tracks of Angels,
Sigh to my heart, and cry, see there, and there,
In full perfection thousand Bellamira's.
Mach.
My Lord, your wound bleeds fast.
Gand.
O Machiavel!
When I am shut for ever from the World,
Thou tenderst-hearted, gentlest, best of Friends,
Wilt visit me sometimes: I know thou wilt.
Mach.
Why do you droop thus? lean upon my Arm:
All shall be well. Yes, I will find a way,
In spite of Fortune, yet to heal your sorrows,
And pour the Balm of Bellamira's tears
Upon your wound.
Gand.
Could I but see her once
Before I die!
Mach.
Once, Twice, a Hundred times;
Doubt not, you shall; but haste to your Apartment.
[Ex. Gandia.
Methinks if mischief had but this to vaunt,
That, like a God, none knows her but her self,
It were enough to mount her o're the World.
I love my self; and for my self, I love
Borgia my Prince: Who does not love himself?
Self-love's the Universal Beam of Nature,
The Axle-tree that darts through all its Frame:
And he's a Child in thought, who fears the sting
Of Conscience; and will rather lose himself,
Than make his Fortune by another's ruine!
Conscience, the Bug-bears roar, the Nurses howl,
Our Infant lash and whip of Education.
Enter Adorna.
My Genius, my Love, my little Angel,
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Adorn.
First, my Lord,
If I have breath to utter, let me tell you,
Never was Marriage solemniz'd like this.
Mach.
Go on.
Adorn.
The Bride in Mourning Robes was led,
Or rather born like a pale Course along;
I saw her when she first approach'd the Temple,
How, rushing from the arms of those that held her,
She threw her body on the Marble steps,
When strait the Bridegroom within kindled Face
Draw near, and blushing, stretcht his bloody Arm,
Wrapt in a Scarf, and gave it to the Bride!
Then, bowing, wish'd the Priest perform his Duty.
Mach.
What follow'd?
Adorn.
Urg'd, or rather brib'd before,
The Priest, at Old Orsino's Intercession,
Soon joyn'd their Hands: all from the Temple haste,
Orsino and his Son in deep Discourse,
And Bellamira blind with weeping, led
This way.
Mach.
I am glad on't, for I wait to speak with her.
Prithee produce the Letters: Come, I know
Thou hast 'em: nay, 'tis thy own interest.
Adorn.
See Bellamira enters: stay some time,
And I'll discover to your own desire.
Enter Bellamira.
Mach.
Madam, I would entreat a word in private.
Bell.
Can misery, like mine, be worth discourse?
Mach.
The dead are only happy, and the dying:
The dead are still, and lasting slumbers hold 'em;
He, who is near his Death, but turns about,
Shuffles a while to make his Pillow easie,
Then slips into his Shroud, and rests for ever.
Bella.
My Mind presages, by the bloody hand
That seiz'd me at the Altar.—
Mach.
In their Nonage
A Sympathy unusual joyn'd their loves;
They pair'd like Turtles, still together drank,
Together eat, nor quarrell'd for the choice:
Like Twining-streams both from one Fountain fell,
And as they ran, still mingled smiles and tears:
But oh, when Time had swell'd their Currents high,
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And now for ever they have lost each other.
Bella.
For ever! Oh the horrour that invades me!
Thou seem'st to imitate some horrid act:
I charge thee speak, how fares the Duke of Gandia?
Not answer me! why dost thou shake thy Head,
And cross thy arms, and turn thy eyes away?
Has there been ought betwixt my Lord and him?
Mach.
There has, they fought.
Bella.
The Cause, the Cursed Cause
Stands here, before thy eyes she stands to blast thee:
I know 'tis thus; Borgia for me was wounded;
And, oh my fears! by his relentless hand,
Perhaps that poor despairing lost Palante
Is miserably slain: If it be so,
Spite of my Father, I'll renounce my Vows,
Forgo, forswear all comforts in this life,
And fly the World.
Mach.
Would I were out on't;
Nothing but fraud and cruelties reign here.
He is not slain: but, as his Surgeons bode,
I fear him much. Oh would you be so kind
To see the Wounds he suffers for your sake,
And charm his pains but with one parting view
Before your Lord return.—
Bella.
Alas! I dare not!
Mach.
He graspt me by the wrist, and weeping, vow'd
'Twould be a Heav'n, a Lightning in his Grave,
Where else he must for ever lye unpiti'd.
Now, on my Soul, you must, you ought to see him,
Who ballancing the Scales of doubtful life,
Lies in your way: a glance, one grain of favour
Turns him from Death. Come, come, you must have mercy:
Madam, I'll wait and intercept your Lord.
Bella.
A Visit! just upon our Marriage too—
But 'tis the last that he shall e're receive;
Therefore I'll go; Nature, Compassion, Fate;
And Love, far more tyrannical than those,
Forces me on: I feel him here; he throbs,
And beats a Mournful March.
Mach.
Fear not, away:
I'll guard the passage: look not back, but haste.
[Ex. Bellamira.
If I remember story well, old Rome
Was free from all this weakness of the mind;
For Women! oh how slightly were they thought of,
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To breed him his Heirs, because she was a Teemer
And after he was dead, again receiv'd her.
This was before the Vandals made us Slaves,
Who mingling with our Wives, begot a Race
That nothing holds of the old Lyon, Glory.
Enter Borgia.
But hush, more work, and now I am compos'd.
Borg.
Welcom, my best of Friends, my Machiavel!
Let me unlade on thee my fraught of joy;
For Bellamira's mine, her Vows are mine;
Her Father gave her, and the Holy man
Has link'd our Hands: Fortune perhaps, e're long,
May joyn our hearts: However, dearly bought,
I say, she's mine.
Mach.
However, dearly bought!
Borg.
True Machiavel, most dearly; but alas,
He that would reach the Mine, must burst the Quarry,
And labour to the Center—Ha—thou'rt cold;
Start from this Lethargy, and tell me why,
Why dost thou shake my joys with that stern look?
Speak, for to me thy Face is as the Heav'ns,
And, when thou smil'st, I cannot fear a Storm:
But now thy gather'd brows prognosticate
Ill weather: Lightning sparkles from thy Eyes
Speak too, though thunder follow.
Mach.
On what conditions had the Prince his life?
Borg.
It was agreed betwixt us solemnly,
And bound by Oath, that he was subdu'd
Should never speak to Bellamira more.
Mach.
I am satisfi'd.—
Borg.
O Machiavel! is this friendly,
To hide the Cause of thy disorder from me?
Thou said'st, I am satisfied; but at that moment
I saw two furies leap from thy red Eyes,
That said thou'rt not, thou art not satisfi'd.
This coldness of thy Carriage! this dead stillness
Makes me more apprehend than all the noise
That mad-men raise: Speak then, but do not blast me,
Speak by degrees, let the Truth break away
In oblique sounds; for if it come directly,
I fall at once, split, ruin'd, dash'd for ever,
So little am I Master of my Passion.
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Therefore I dare not tell you.
Borg.
Therefore 'tis horrid, ah!
Monstrous! 'tis so; therefore thou darst not tell me:
But speak; though trembling thus from head to foot,
I will be calm, press down the rising sighs,
And stifle all the swellings in my heart:
I will be Master far as Nature can.
Mach.
If that you knew such Fire was in your temper,
And thus would burn you up, why would you marry?
Borg.
Because resistless Love! resistless Beauty
Hurry'd me on. But speak, thou stav'st me off.
If thou hast Sense of Honour, tell me Machiavel!
Speak, I conjure thee, as thou art my Friend.
Mach.
The fault's not great, and you may pardon it;
Yet 'twas a fault, I think: where did you leave
Your Bride?
Borg.
Why dost thou ask? I know not where:
This way they led her; and as I perswaded
Orsino, though unwilling, judg'd it fit
She should retire again to her Apartment,
That her full griefs might have a time to waste.
Mach.
She is retir'd, my Lord.
Borg.
Ha! whither? speak:
She is retir'd where she should not retire!
'Tis true, most plain, most undeniable,
I know it by the fashion of thy Wit,
Thy accent swears it; mouth thy Tale no more,
But say distinctly whither she's retir'd:
I charge thee, pray thee, and conjure thee, speak,
For what, with whom, and on what new occasion?
Mach.
you have a Brother.
Borg.
O the prejur'd Traytor!
I have! what then?
Mach.
She's with him now.
Borg.
With whom?
Mach.
Why with the Duke of Gandia; with your Brother
Palente, Son, or Nephew to the Pope.
Borg.
What Bellamira with him? Ponyards! Daggers!
Mach.
This way, but now, I saw her come in haste;
Whether she guss'd the matter by your Wound,
I know not, but with faulting speech she ask'd
How far'd Palante, if he were in being?
Whereon I nothing mus'd, but in plain terms,
With moderation, told her what I knew;
But had you seen the starts and stops she made!
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No doubt she did; Ten Thousand Curses, oh—
Go on; for yet I am a fangless Lion.
Mach.
Had you but heard when first his Wound I mention'd,
How she shriek'd out; how oft she forced me swear,
And swear, and swear again, it was not mortal!
Borg.
Undone for ever! O destruction seize her!
Mach.
But when I told your hurt, she seem'd scarce griev'd,
And lessening sorrow yielded to attention;
I do not say she flatly did rejoice,
But sure I am, she smil'd, and touch'd my Hand,
And begg'd me, if you came this way, to hold you
In talk, while to the sick she made a visit.
Borg.
Thy Bosom be my Grave; bear me a while
Or I shall burst. O Bellamira! Oh!
Mach.
Raise, raise your self. Ha, Prince! is this the Fire
We fear'd but now, that most transporting fury?
Borg.
No more; 'tis gone: O Marriage! now I find thee;
Thou costly Feast, on which with fear we feed,
As if each Golden Dish we taste were poison'd;
Where, by the fatal Tyranny of Custom,
Our Honour, like a Sword just pointing o're us,
Hangs by a Hair. Ha! but it comes, 'tis faln!
Like a forked Arrow stuck into my Skull.
No more: I am deaf as Adders, and as deadly:
Mercy! no more! thy Voice is quite uncharm'd;
All pity thus be dry'd from my weak Eyes:
Here will I look my Mothers softness off,
And gaze till Southern Fury steels my Soul,
Till I am all my Father; till his Form,
All bloody o're from Head to Foot with slaughter,
Skims o're my pollish'd Blade, in frowns to haste me.
Mach.
What mean you, Sir?
Borg.
I know not what my self!
Off from my Arms; away. Ive oftentimes heard
At Princes Murders, Monstrous Births forbode;
The Heavens themselves rain Blood: Why, let it rain!
If my Heart holds her purpose, with this hand
I'll swell the Purple Deluge. Vengeance! Death and Vengeance.
[Exit.
Mach.
No, my brave Warrior! 'tis not gone so far:
These starts are but the hasty Harbingers
To the slow Murder that comes dragging on:
The Mischief's yet but young, an Infant Fury;
'Tis the first brawl of new-born Jealousie:
But I have Machiavellian Magick here
Shall nurse this Brood of Hell to such perfection,
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But hark! the Noise approaches, and the time
Put's me in mind of Bellamira's Letters—
[Exit.
Enter Borgia, Bellamira, Gandia.
Borg.
Furies and Hell! yet e're thou dy'st, proud Villain,
Let me demand thee how thou dar'st abuse
My Mercy thus?
Gand.
I give thee back the Title;
And have a heart so well assur'd of Death,
That I disdain to answer.
Borg.
Dye then, Traytor!
Bella.
Hold, Borgia, hold! Hear Bellamira speak.
Borg.
Confusion! off: and play not thus with Thunder,
Lest it should blast thee too: Hence, off, I say:
Though thou deserv'st a Fate as sharp and sudden,
I will take leisure in thy death. Be gone.
Bella.
Behold, I grasp the Dagger, draw it through
And gash my Veins, and tear my Arteries;
I'll fix my hand thus to the wounding Blade
While life will let me hold, and force thee hear me.
Borg.
Say'st, ha! wilt thou? darst thou brave me thus?
Thus guilty too; once more forego my Ponyard.
Bella.
No: draw it, Cruel; let thy Bloody Deeds
Be swifter than thy Threats: I fear thee not;
But thus will wound my self, or quite disarm thee.
Now you shall hear me.
Borg.
Is this possible?
Ha! Borgia! where! where is thy Fury now?
Where thy Revenge? O Woman in perfection!
Thou dazling Mixture of Ten Thousand Circa's,
In one bright heap cast by some hudling God,
How dar'st thou venture thus? how dar'st thou do this?
Yet heave thy Breasts, pant, breathe, and think on mercy?
Bella.
My Acts have shown the care indeed I take
To save my life: No, Prince, not for my own
I would be heard, but for your innocent Brother's,
Palante.
Borg.
Ha! Palante! Yes, I know thee,
There hangs thy Joy, thy Pulse, thy Breath and Motion,
Blood, Life and Soul, thy Darling-Blessing's here,
And more than all the joys of Heaven hereafter.
O World of Horror! O Contagion, on
The Day when first I saw thee.
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Would you but hear—
Borg.
Come off, I say! tear thy scarf'd wound tear't up,
With these distilling drops; come glut thy Eyes,
Glut'em with Blood; for Borgia's Blood's thy Joy;
For say—When at the Altar I stood bleeding,
Speak Tygress, barbarous Wretch, thou she Palante,
Did'st thou once ask the occasion of my Wound?
No—I remember thy uneasie Carriage,
How often thou look'st back with longing Eyes!
How oft in secret thou didst curse the Priest,
The tedious length of whose slow Ceremonies
Kept thee from flying to Palante's Arms.
Gand.
Farewel, my Lord; think Bellamira guiltless,
And you shall never see Palante more.
Borg.
Stay Sir; come back, I know your Wound's a trouble;
But the reward I mean is worth your waiting.
Here, take him, Bellamira; clasp him;
I give him thee, as our Physicians do.
Prescribe lost Remedies, to save thy life?
I give him thee to save thy gasping Soul,
Which would be damn'd without him; yet observe
There is a Deed that most, that shall be done
Before you laugh and kiss. See here, my bosom,
Strike, and strike deep, deep as Palante burns thee;
For in thy Heart, hot in thy inmost Veins,
I know the curs'd, the too lov'd Traytor lies.
Gand.
I do renounce thy name, and to the Giver
Retort it with an equal Indignation!
Borg.
Retort it! what?
Gand.
The name of Traytor.
Borg.
Ha!
Provoke me not, lest as I am, unarm'd,
I crush thee with my Hands, and dash thee Dead.
Bella.
Hold off, and hear me; noble Borgia, hear me!
Hear me, my Lord, my Husband, hear me kneeling;
Thou, whom the Heav'ns have destin'd to my Arms,
The constant Partner of my nicest thoughts,
Doom'd to my Bed, whom I must learn to love,
And will, unless you turn my Heart to Stone.
Borg.
Ha!
O! such sweet words ne're fell from that fair mouth
Before, nor can I trust 'em now!
Bella.
If you call back
The Vengeance which your impious Vows let slip,
I swear, thus sinking on your Feet, I swear
39
Nor speak, no, nor (if possible) to think
Of poor Palante more.
Borg.
Go on; go on; I swear the Wind is turn'd,
And all those furious and outragious passions
Now bend another way.
Bella.
I will hereafter,
With strictest duty, serve you as my Lord,
And give you signs of such most faithful love,
That it shall seem as if we languish'd long,
As if we had been us'd to mingle sighs!
And from our Cradles interchang'd our Souls;
As if no breach had ever been betwixt us;
As if no cruel Father forc'd the Marriage;
I so resigning as if always yours,
And you so mild as if no other proof
But my dishonour e're could make you angry.
Borg.
O my heart's joy! Rise, Bellamira, rise!
There's nothing left, nothing of rage to fright thee;
Thou hast new tun'd me, and the trembling strings
Of my touch'd heart dance to the Inspiration,
As if no harshness, nor no jars had been:
Had these sweet sounds but met my entrance here,
My ghastly fears and cloven jealousies,
With all the Monsters that made sick my Brain,
Had fled (so soft and artful are thy strains,)
Like fallen Fiends before the Prophets Charms.
Bella.
I came, 'tis true, my Lord, to see Palante,
But thought him on his Death-bed.
Borg.
O, no more!
I do intreat thee mention that no more;
All's well; and we have mutually forgiven!
I love thee, Bellamira; therefore pass
This Errour by; yes, for thy self I love thee!
To glut my fancy with thy endless Charms,
And snatch the pleasures of all Woman-kind:
Thy fair Repentance, and thy graceful Vows,
Have turn'd the eagerness of sworn revenge
To furious Wishes for the promis'd Joy.
Enter Orsino.
Gand.
O blasting sight! O death to all my hopes!
Life, thou art vile, and I will wait no longer.
Orsin.
Ha! Traytor Prince!—why, Borgia, does he live,
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Where is the leud Adult'ress too, my Daughter?
For I will stab 'em in each others Arms.
Borg.
Hold! Orsino! for revenge is now
No more; Thy Daughter is most innocent,
And melts into my Arms. O happy Night!
Not to the weary Pilgrim half so welcome,
When after many a weary bleeding step
With joyful looks he spies his long'd for Home.
See, see, my Lord, the effects of our Vexation!
Thus comes to the despairing Wretch, the glad
Reprieve: 'Tis Mercy, Mercy at the Block:
Thus the toss'd Seaman, after boisterous Storms,
Lands on his Country's Breast; thus stands, and gazes,
And runs it o're with many a greedy look;
Then shouts for joy, as I should do, and makes
The Ecchoing Hills and all the Shoars resound.
Orsin.
Now Blessings on thy Heart; more Blessings on thee,
Than, on thy Disobedience, Curses. Take him, Girl,
And lay him to thy heart; the warmest Gift
That Nature, or thy Father, can bestow!—
Gand.
Farewel, thrice happy Lover! never shall
This Wretch again disturb you. Bellamira,
O Bellamira—
[Exit.
Bella.
O farewell, for ever!
Borg.
Why dost thou weep? and pour into my wounds
New Oyl to make 'em blaze?
Bella.
I've done, my Lord;
Let me but dry my Eyes, and I will wait you,
To Death, or to your Bed—
Borg.
O ill compar'd!
Be constant Bellamira to thy Vows,
So shall we shine, as in the in-most Heav'n;
The fixt and brightest Stars with silent glory,
Where never Storm, nor Lightnings flash, nor stroak
Of Thunder comes; but if you fail in ought,
Then shall we fall like the cast Angels down,
Never to rise again: Therefore I warn thee—
Bell.
Fear not, my Lord.
Borg.
O! I must fear my temper;
But I will purge it off with resolution,
And with a confidence thou wilt be mine
For shouldst thou not: Hence Gorgon Jealousie!
Cam'st thou uncall'd to set me on the Rack?
Be gone, I say, she's chaste, and I defie thee.
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That man can suffer: root up my possessions,
Shipwrack my far-sought Ballast in the Haven;
Fire all my Cities, burn my Dukekoms down,
Let midnight Wolves howl in my Desart Chambers:
May the Earth yawn; shatter the frame of Nature;
Let the rack'd Orbs in Whirlwinds round me move,
But save me from the rage of jealous Love.
[Exeunt.
| Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth | |