University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Soft Musick, with an Epithalamium to Borgia and Bellamira:

Enter Machiavel and Adorna.
Mach.
Say'st thou, so loving?

Adorn.
O! he has got ground
Beyond all expectation: Had you seen
His graceful manner, when the sighing Bride
Was last night by your Arms given to his Bed;
When after she was laid, quite drown'd in tears,
How, aw'd with trembling, he the Curtains drew,
And kneeling by her Bed side, took her fair hand,
With which she strove to hide her Blushes from him,
And sighing, swore upon't—if so she pleas'd,
If her cold heart refus'd him utterly,
He would forgo his Joys, though death ensu'd.
You muse, my Lord.

Mach.
This day attend my Motion:
Soon as my purpose hits, which you must watch,
I'll train the Bridegroom near Palante's Lodgings;
Whence, as you were before by me instructed,
You with this Letter (which from all the Pacquets
I chose, and notably suits our design)
Shall issue forth, an act as I inspir'd—

Adorn.
I fear this business,
Lest he should kill me: in this height of fury,
Murder his Brother, or his Innocent Lady.

Mach.
I tell thee, though a Whirlwind drove him on,
I'll make him calm. The consequence of this
Is thine: He drives Palante from the Palace,
Who else may linger after Bellamira;
And then thou know'st—

Adorn.
I will about it streight.
If I get clear of this, use me no more,
For I have sworn to cease—

Mach.
Prithee, be gone—
Use me no more: For she has sworn to cease,
[Ex. Adorna.
To dip her Lady finger in new mischief:
Yes—thou shalt cease to live when I have us'd thee,
Poor useless thing.—But see the Bridegrooms here.
Enter Borgia.
My Lord, I give you joy: your motion gives it
Your wondrous gallantry, and sprightly action.
But has she wholly yielded to your wishes,
Without the least reserve?

Borg.
Oh!
I cannot tell thee ought but this, I am happy
Above expression, blest beyond all hope;
And sure such perfect joy cannot last long,
Lest we be Gods. O thou great Chymist, Nature,
Who drawst one spirit so sublimely perfect,
Thou mak'st a Dreg of all the World beside.

Mach.
Why, this at first I told you, but you fear'd,
And push'd the blessing from you with both hands.
I grant you that she lov'd your Brother first;
I know he's young, and handsom, has a Wit
Most suitable to Womans inclination,
A subtle Genius, soft and voluble,
That winds with their discourse, and hits the Vein:
'Tis true, you are not of this subtle Mould;
But if you have enjoy'd her, 'tis all one,
My life she loves you: so the Act's resolv'd,
Leave them to manage. O ye know 'em not:
Those subtle Creatures, when necessity
Forces compliance, in a case like yours,
Will make the best on't.

Borg.
How Machiavel, the best on't! Ha! how mean'st thou?

Mach.
Why thus; she may, ev'n Bellamira may,
Spight of her Fathers will, her Vows in Marriage,
And all her after-Oaths, even in your Arms
Bestow her self upon the Duke of Gandia.

Borg.
Ha!

Mach.
I say not (pardon me!) she does, or will;
But to make good my former argument,
Affirm they may, they can, they will do thus.
As for example, though your Bellamira,
Compell'd as all Rome knows to this late Marriage,
Admits you to her Bed; you cannot think,
But her Palante had been much more welcome.

Borg.
Heav'n

Mach.
'Tis likely too her Fancy workt that Way
I urg'd before, she took you for Palante:
'Tis dark, she sees you not; you are his Brother,
Form'd in one Womb, of the same flesh and blood;
Therefore she yields as to foreknown Embraces:
And as you gently draw with trembling arms
Her nice Beauties to your heaving Breasts;
She shuts her eyes with languishing delight,
And whispers to her heart, it is Palante.

Borg.
Cease Machiavel; hold, as thou lov'st my life,
I charge thee hold: O, 'tis most true I swear!
Thou know'st the very depth of Woman-kind:
They are what thy Imagination paints 'em,
Charmers and Sorceresses. O, I'll tell thee,
When I the chastest, as I thought her then,
I am sure the sweetest of the Earth, imbrac'd—
'Twas with complainings, Machiavel, such tremblings,
I could have sworn her cold as Winter streams,
But oh the horrours thou hast conjur'd up!
Soon as soft sleep had seal'd her melting eyes,
I heard her sigh; for till the morn I wak'd,
Palante. Oh—what have we done, Palante?

Mach.
By Heav'n, that was too much.

Borg.
O much,—much more.
For stealing nearer me; her glowing arm,
Cast o're my Cheek, thrice prest me to her Breast;
Ev'n that coy arm, so nicely strange before,
Familiar grew, and circled in my Neck,
With all the freedom of acquainted Love:
And I too pi i'd her, and thought that Nature
Work'd her imperfectly; but now I know,
I find, I see, it was her hearts design,
The black contrivance of her blotted Fancy:
Blood, Blood and Deaths; thus has she set me down,
Through the whole course of her polluted nights,
To be her Bawd, her most industrious Groom,
The Drudge of her damn'd Lust—Palante's stale—

Mach.
Are you incens'd indeed? or do you, Sir,
Put on this jealous Fit to make you sport?
For if so small a Spark thus makes you glow,
A little more will blow you into Flame:
Therefore be serious in your Answer.

Borg.
Ha!
Thou know'st before my Marriage how I fear'd,
How when my Honour was ingag'd by Vows,
Like Flax my jealous temper caught the Flame,
And scarce could all her melting sorrows quench me.

Mach.
I do remember well.

Borg.
But now I have enjoy'd her; mark me, Machiavel,
If I was Flax before, I am Powder now,
And will fly up in general Conflagration:
For I would chuse to scramble at a Door,
Make my loath'd Meals out of the common Basket,
With Dungeon Villains, wallow in the Stews,
And get my Bread by poysoning my firm Limbs,
E're pass an hour with her I have Espous'd,
If but in thought consenting with another.

Mach.
I am glad to find the Genius of your Climate
Inflames you thus; my Lord, give me your Hand:
Prepare your Soul, gather your Nobler Spirits,
And bid 'em stand to Arms, like Towns besieg'd,
That must receive no Quarter.

Borg.
Let me go:
So deep thou threaten'st, that I fear ev'n thee;
And from this moment, like the fearful Plans,
Shrink back my Arms from every Human touch:
But speak, I charge thee, slip the strugling Thunder,
And foil my Soul.

Mach.
This Morning, just before you enter'd here,
I saw in haste Adorna cross the Garden,
And as she ran, a Note dropt from her Bosom,
Which I took up, and in it read these words;
Mourn not, my dear Palante, for the time
Draws on, when spite of this inhumane Borgia
We will be happy.

Borg.
Yes, she shall, she shall;
I'll joyn 'em Breast to Bosom, stab 'em through,
And clinch my Dagger on the other side.

Mach.
This, as I oft perus'd in great amazement,
I saw her who had miss'd the Note, come back,
And briefly let her know that I had read it;
With Menaces, unless she told me all,
Immediately to carry you the Letter.
Why should I rack you longer? your Chaste Wife
Has with the help of this her Kinswoman
Concluded, on the date of your first absence,
To admit your Brother.

Borg.
'Tis impossible!
'Tis mountainous to Faith; I'll not believe it:
For Hell it self ne're teem'd with such a falshood.

Enter Adorna.
Mach.
Ha—as I live, just from Palante now,
The private way from his Apartment, see
Their Emissary comes.

Borg.
O thou vile Bawd!
Thou Midnight Hag; thou most Contagious Blast,
Which Bellamira with a Strumpets breath
Blows to Palante, and he back to her:
Whence com'st thou? speak! what bear'st thou? Ha, produce it,
Or I will tear thee Limb from Limb.

Adorn.
O Heav'ns!
I am betray'd, undone, for ever ruin'd; and I shall lose my life.

Borg.
Thou shalt be safe, I swear thou shalt, if thou confess the truth:
But if thou hide ought from me, I will rack thee,
Till with thy horrid Groans thou wake the Dead.

Adorn.
O my Lord!
I do confess that Bellamira sent me;
But sure no harm was in the Letter.

Borg.
None,
None at all; Hell knows her Innocence:
But speak—

Adorn.
I have, my Lord, confess'd already
All that I know, to my Lord Machiavel.

Borg.
Thou ly'st, damn'd Wretch! look here, and dare not urge me!
Show me the Answer to the Morning Message,
Or I will cut thee to Anatomy,
And search through all thy Veins to find it out.

Adorn.
O, save my life! behold, my Lord, this Paper:
What it contains, I know not.

Borg.
'Tis his hand.

Mach.
Be gone; and on thy life no talk of this.—

Ex. Adorna.
Borg.
reads.
Palante waits upon your motion. Death and Devils!
And when you call, he comes; or the long sleep
Shall hush him ever.
Daggers! Poyson! Fire.
Tears the Letter.
Woe, and ten thousand horrours on their Souls.

Mach.
What now, my Lord?

Borg.
Off—or I'll stab thee through!
Stab—I could mangle, tear up my own Breast,
Drag forth my heart that holds her bleeding Image,
And dash it in her face.

Mach.
Talk no more on't; but do, Sir, do.

Borg.
Yes, Machiavel, I will—I will do deeds
Grain'd as my wrongs: I will, I will be bloody
As Pyrrhus, daub'd in Murder at the Altar;
As Tullia, driving through her Fathers Bowels;
As Cæsar Butchers in the Capitol;
As Nero bathing in his Mothers Womb;
With all succeeding Tyrants down to ours.
Lords of the Inquisition, black Contrivers
Of Princes Deaths, and Heads of Massacres;
Orsino, Vitellozzo, Duke Gravina,
Oliverotto too; all, all at once,
Even the whole Race, a Hecatomb to Vengeance.

Mach.
Hear me one word.

Borg.
Bid the Sea listen, when the weeping Merchant,
To gorge its ravenous Jaws, hurls all his Wealth,
And stands himself upon the splitting Deck,
For the last plunge. No more! let's rush together;
For Death rides Post.

Mach.
Though Death should meet me,
More horrid then you Name, I'd cross this fury,
This blind, ungovern'd rage: Sir you shall hear me.

Borg.
Barr'st thou my Vengeance?

Mach.
No—I'll further it:
You shall have proof so plain, the World shall say,
The Pope himself, dear as he loves your Brother,
Shall say the stroke was just. This Night I'll bring you
Into her Chamber, if with some pretence
You seem t'absent your self: my Lord, I'll bring you
With a false Key into the Bridal Lodging;
Where you shall see, even with those eyes behold,
And gaze upon their curst incestuous Loves.

Borg.
Just reeking from my arms! O thou Adulteress!
Whose Name to mention, sure would rot my Lungs,
And blister up my Tongue; Insatiate Scylla!
Bark'st thou for more? then let the Furies seize thee,
Whose burning Lust damns to the lowest Hell,
Smoaks to the Heav'ns, and sullies all the Stars.

Mach.
Compose your looks, smooth down that starting hair,
And dry your eyes, with spite of this distraction,
I see are full, brim full of gushing tears.

Borg.
Had she not fall'n thus, O ten thousand Worlds
Could not have balanc'd her, for Heav'n is in her,
And joys which I must never dream of more;
I weep, 'tis true: But, Machiavel, I swear,
They're Tears of Vengeance, drops of liquid fire:
So Marble weeps when Flames surround the Quarry,
And the pil'd Oaks spout forth such scalding Bubbles
Before the general blaze; for that she dies,
Though clinging to the Altar; Guardian Gods,
Though starting from their Shrines, shall not redeem her.

Mach.
Pretend to night, nor is it bare pretence;
For, as I hear, the Sinigallian Victors
Come on to wait you here: Pretend to her,
To Bellamira, you can scarce return
In forty hours.

Borg.
I will do what I may.

Mach.
Away then.

Borg.
Ha! methinks thou dost not share
In my resentment, Machiavel, as thou ought'st:
If thou art my Friend, and art indeed concern'd,
Relieve my weari'd fury, beat my Vengeance,
Call up a friendly rage, and curse e'm, Machiavel,
Curse these Triumphers o're thy Borgia's ruine.

Mach.
Diseases wait 'em: Wherefore should I curse 'em?
If that my Breath were sulph'rous as the Lightning
That murders with a blast; or like the Vapours,
The choaking stench, which those that die of Plagues
Send with their parting groans, then I would curse 'em
With Accents that should poyson from my Tongue,
Deliver'd strongly through my gnashing Teeth;
More harsh, more horrible, and more outragious,
Than Envy in her Cave, or Mad-men in their Dens.

Borg.
Excellent, Machiavel! more, more, to lull me.

Mach.
My Tongue should stammer in my earnest words;
My eyes should sparkle like the beaten Flint.

Borg.
This hoary Hair should start, and stand an end,
And all thy shaking joynts should seem to curse 'em.

Mach.
Nay, since you urge me, Sir, my heart will break,
Unless I curse 'em! Poyson be their drink.

Borg.
Gall and Wormwood! Hemlock! Hemlock! quench 'em.

Mach.
Their sweetest Shade, a Dell of duskish Adders.

Borg.
Their fairest Prospect, Fields of Basilisks:
Their softest touch, as smart as Vipers Teeth.

Mach.
Their Musick horrid as the hiss of Dragons,
All the foul terrors of dark-seated Hell.

Borg.
No more; thou art one piece with me my self:
And now I take a pride in my revenge.

Mach.
You bid me ban, and will you bid me cease?
Now, by your wrongs that turn my heart to steel,
Well could I curse away a Winters night,
Though standing naked on a Mountains top,
And think it but a minute spent in sport.

Borg.
Thou best of Friends! come to my Arms, my Brother:
But the time calls, and Vengeance bids us part;
Henceforth, be thou the Mistress of my Heart.

[Ex.
Mach.
Now it grows ripe; the Orsins, and Vitelli,
Are buri'd by my Wit without a noise.
O! 'tis the safer course, for threats are dang'rous,
But there's no danger in the Execution;
For he that's dead, ne're thinks upon revenge.
What, hoa—Alonzo!—

Enter Alonzo.
Alonz.
Here, my Lord.

Mach.
Are the Gloves brought I sent to the Perfumers?

Alonz.
They are.

Mach.
Where is Adorna?

Alonz.
She waits without.

Mach.
As you see her enter,
Bring me the Gloves: 'Twere easie strangling her,
But this is quainter.—O my bright Adorna!
Enter Adorna.
With confidence I swear the Duke is thine.

Adorn.
May I believe it?

Mach.
Be judge, thy self, whether I have been idle!
These were a Present from the King of Spain,
To the Pope's Niece; of whom the fond young Duke
Begg'd 'em for thee.

Adorn.
Is't possible?

Mach.
Stay Madam—we must change
One Present for another. Lend me the Key
To Bellamira's Chamber.

Adorn.
For what?

Mach.
Nay, if we barter words.

Adorn.
Here, here, my Lord.
Now give me the dear Present.
See, see, my Lord, they are emboss'd with Jewels,
And cast so rich an Odour, they o'recome me—
Help me—my Lord—O help me—lend your Arm—
The Earth turns round with me! O mercy, Heaven—

[Dyes.
Mach.
Remove the Body—
Then haste, and find the Duke of Gandia out,
E're he removes, as he intends to night;
Having Commission from the Pope to lead
Th'Italian Armies; earnestly entreat him,
To honour me by making one last Visit,
Which equally imports him as his life.

Enter Borgia and Bellamira.
Borg.
Upon the instant, Fairest, I must leave you;
The Lord of Firmo, with the Duke your Uncle,
Have taken Sinigallia by surprize:
What else, but meeting thy Victorious Kinsmen,
Should draw me from thy Arms? yet thus divided
But for a day or two, methinks I part,
As Souls are sever'd from their warmer Mansions,
To wander in the bleak and desart Air.
O Bellamira!

Bell.
Why do you sigh, my Lord?
If 'tis your pleasure, let 'em wait you here;
Or if my Presence can dispel these Clouds
That make you say, I will attend you thither;
For while life lasts I will be all obedience. O—

Borg.
Could'st thou hold there, how might we laugh at Fate!
So kindled both by Love, and by Ambition,
How would I sweep, like Tempests, with a waste
Over all Italy, and Crown the Empress
Here in the Heart of Rome—my bright Augusta,
But 'tis impossible.

Bell.
Then you conclude, my Lord, I am not true.

Borg.
Why, art thou? Is there such a thing in Nature
As a true Wife? No, Bellamira no—
Thou would'st be monstrous then, ev'n to derision:
For the whole Flock of common Wives would whoot thee,
And drive thee, like a Bird, without one Feather
Of thy own kind.

Bell.
Once more upon my knees,
In view of all the Hierarchy of Heav'n,
I here attend my spotless Innocence.

Borg.
Still Machiavel, still let us keep to death;
Our Principle, that we are dust when dead;
For, were there any Hell, or any Devil
But hot enough to make an Exhortation,
Would he not fetch her now? would he not dam her?
I do believe thee guiltless: Therefore rise;
But since thou art so confidently clear,
Swear Bellamira, if I prove thee false,
What e're I threat, nay, though I put in act
Those Menaces, thou wilt not call me Tyrant.

Bell.
I swear by Heav'n I will submit my life
To the severest stroke of your revenge.

Borg.
If then I prove thee false, O Bellamira!
Not that Celestial Copy, ev'n thy Face,
Shall scape; but I will race the Draught, as if
It ne're had been the pattern of the Gods.

Bell.
Act what you please; but speak no more, my Lord,
For every word's a bolt, and strikes me dead.

Borg.
If thou art false, and if I prove thee so,
That skin of thine, that matchless Weft of Heav'n,
Which some more curious Angel cast about thee,
Will I tear off, though cleaving to the Shrine.

Bell.
Speak to him, Machiavel! O fatal Marriage!

Borg.
If thou dost play me false, think not of mercy;
Thy Father shall be burnt before thy eyes.

Bell.
O horrid thought!

Borg.
Thy Uncles, Brothers, Sisters,
All that have any relish of thy blood,
I'll rack to death, and throw their Limbs before thee:
Therefore look to't; beware, if thou art false,
I'll take thee unprepar'd, and sink thy Soul:
Therefore, I say again, beware! I've warn'd thee;
body and Soul, ev'n everlasting ruine;
For so may Heav'n have mercy upon mine
At my last gasp, as I'll have none on thine—

Exit.
Bell.
O 'tis too plain! I am lost, undone for ever.
What, but one Night, ev'n the first Nuptial Night,
So sought, so courted, and so hardly won;
And the next day, nay, the succeeding Morn
To be us'd thus—Let me go, let me go,
For I'll proclaim him through the streets of Rome
The Traytor, Monster—O, I could shake the world
With thundring forth my wrongs; Hollow his Name
To the resounding Hills? Borgia! Traytor Borgia!
Methinks that word, that spell, that horrid sound,
That groan of Air could cleave the neighbouring Rocks,
And scare the babling Ecchoes from their Dens.

Mach.
Perhaps some busie Slave has whisper'd him
I know not what, that chafes his melancholy
Against your Honour.

Bell.
That's impossible!
And I deni'd to admit him to my Bed,
Some seeming cause, some reason for distrust
Might then be given; but the bright Heav'ns know
I had resolv'd to take him for my Lord,
And love him too, or force my inclination,
So subtly had he wrought by deep dissembling
Upon my plain and undiscerning weakness:
But now he's gorg'd, the Monster shews himself,
Appears all Beast, and I must die, he cries.
Ah Cruelty! and all my wretched Race.

Mach.
Madam, you know how near a Friendship grows
Betwixt the Duke of Gandia, and my self:
After this night you'll never see him more:
Yet, e're he goes, as he to night is order'd,
He will unfold, if you permit him leave,
The only means to save your Father's life!
Nay, and the lives of all your Family.

Bell.
O Machiavel! now, where is thy advice?
Had I not reason for my dreadful fears?
My Father dies; and by whose Hand but Borgia's?
What shall I do? where shall I go? and whither shall I run?
Ten thousand horrours! O, instruct me, Machiavel,
For I grow desperate!

Mach.
Admit the Duke of Gandia,
This night, for one last Conference: your Husband
Cannot return, unless he ride the Wind
In forty hours—

Bell.
Here I am lost again:
Should he return, and find Palante with me,
Whom I have sworn never to see, discourse,
Never to hear of, scarce to think of more,
What Mountains then should hide me from his fury?
Yet I see him not, my poor old Father,
With all his Children, Brothers, and Relations,
Top, Root and Branches, all must be cut down;
Hear, Heav'n, hear! I must kneel to thee for succour;
O aid my Vertue, and support my weakness:
Methinks I am inspir'd; some Guardian-Spirit
Whispers me, save, O save thy Father's life!
Bring him then, Machiavel, bring the Duke of Gandia:
Yet stay! methinks I see the Tyrant there!
My bloody Husband, with his Ponyard drawn,
Just at the Door: Stop, stop, the Duke of Gandia,
He shall not come: Why, then thy Father dies;
O horrid state! weep eyes, and blood, O heart!
Let Nature burst with these unheard of suff'rings!
Forbid him, Machiavel; or let him come,
All have their Fate, and I'll expect my Doom.—

Ex. severally.