 | Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth |  |
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Enter Machiavel, and Alonzo.Alonz.
My Lord, I have been diligent.
Mach.
And always wer't my subtle Emissary;
My glance of Death, and Lanthorn to my mischiefs.
Alonz.
I met the Duke of Gandia at the Head
Of his new Forces, and acquainted him
As you directed; and he'll streight attend you:
But as I whisper'd him, Duke Valentine
With a vast Train came up to take his leave,
Being call'd (as Fame reports) to Sinigallia:
53
Which Borgia swore should be inviolable,
And ratifi'd 'em with a parting Kiss.
Mach.
'Tis my own Borgia; a very Limb of me;
And when he dies, thou'lt see me halt, Alonzo.
Enter Gandia.
My Lord, most welcom! Alonzo—hence—O Prince!—
Ex. Alonz.
Was ever Slave so careful for his Lord,
That watch'd his Nod, as I have been for you?
Gand.
I must with shame to Death acknowledge it.
But didst thou know, or could'st thou guess, how near
The loss of Bellamira touches me,
Thou would'st forgive me.
Mach.
I have excus'd you, Sir:
And for a witness of my faster Friendship,
This Night have sent the Duke to Sinigallia,
That you might take your last farewel of Love,
And Bellamira.
Gand.
And has the Cruel Fair consented to it?
Mach.
She has consented, rather by constraint,
Than her own will: I was forc'd to tell her,
How you had signifi'd to me, her Father
Was in great hazard; but if she vouchsaf'd
A Visit, you would satisfie her better.
Enter Alonzo.
Gand.
Ha! what's this? a sudden fall of Spirits—
Alonz.
My Lord, he's in's Litter muffled up,
In a dark Avenue behind the Palace;
And bid me fly to tell you, Tarquin's Poppies
Are bound up all together in one Sheaf.
Mach.
Haste thee, and make my Answer thus—The Time
Calls for their Heads. This Key, my Lord, admits you—
Gand.
'Tis now no time for thanks; but if I live—
[Exit.
Mach.
Why, this is true Italian! turning thus
A Key with Machiavellian slight of hand,
Two Families of the best Southern Blood,
With the first Prince in Rome, are quite extinct:
What foggy Northern Brain would dream of this?
54
Borg.
My Machiavel!
Mach.
My Prince, my God like Borgia!
Borg.
Tell me my Bosom-sin; am I awake?
Alive? and may I credit this thy Summons?
Mach.
No sooner were you gone, but your Chaste Wife,
Whom I imagin'd dead with what you utter'd:
I say, this Wife, this heavenly Wife of yours,
Rearing her Head, and wiping her dry Eyes,
Dropping her Chin to make her smile more scornful,
Cry'd out, Lord Machiavel, you see, you see,
What Things these Husbands are, and left the Room.
Borg.
Racks, racks, and fire; Caldrons of molten Lead,
How shall I torture her?
Mach.
Sreight, by her walking Pacquet,
She signifi'd her pleasure to the Duke,
Who soon approach'd, and with a matchless boldness
Desir'd my friendship in this private business:
I smil'd, and promis'd that I would not see,
Though I beheld Adorna let him in;
Whom since I poyson'd, left she should betray
The secret of your coming.
Borg.
By Death and Vengeance
I could turn Cannibal, and with my teeth
Tear her alive. But let us talk no more.
Enter D. Michael.
What Hoa, Don Michael! when I stamp my foot
Against the ground, bring forth the Prisoners,
And execute as I shall order.
[Ex. Michael.
Mach.
Pass the back way, my Lord, this Door is lock'd,
If that be shut too, force it open, while
I set a Guard on this: Millions to one,
But when she hears your voice, she'll hide the Duke,
And then deny him boldly to your Face.
'Tis like those subtle Creatures.
Borg.
Dam 'em, Serpents!
What needs this aggravation? Revenge! away—
[Exit.
Mach.
Now like a Grey-bound barking in the slips,
Death struggles for a loose; I must be gone,
And lurk in Shadows till the Murder's done.
Hark, 'tis doing, the Doors are thunder'd down!
55
All that oppose my Tyrant, to the Center—
Scene draws: Borgia, Bellamira, Duke of Gandia disarm'd: D. Michael, &c.
Borg.
Slave, run you down, and bar the Palace Gates;
Let not a Souldier stir on pain of death,
Till I appoint. What's he you have disarm'd?
Haste, drag him forth, and put the Tapers near him:
Lightning and Thunder! Ha! the Duke of Gandia!
Rage burn me up; it is not possible:
Woman, O Woman!
Bella.
O Heav'ns! O all ye Powers!
Is there not one, one Door for Mercy left?
Borg.
Pull off his Robes, and bind him to a Chair;
Ply him with Fire and Wounds—Yes, Bellamira,
There is a Flood-gate—but it is of Blood;
A Gate for Mercy wide, as thou hast shown
For Honour, Chastity, and Bridal Vertue.
See here the Sluce I draw, through doors of wounds;
Thy Vows; this sulphurous stench thy Kisses.
Bella.
Hold, hold, Tormentors!
Borg.
Seize the Furies Arms,
And execute my Orders.
Gand.
O unmerciful!
O Borgia: when, when shall my Torments end?
Bella.
Ha! is it doing? Wretches, Villains, Dogs,
Miscreants, Sons of Hell, and Broods of Darkness!
Gand.
Humanity can bear no more. My heart, strike there.
Bella.
'Tis done; O the dark deed is done!
O let me gather all the rage of Woman,
And tell this Tyrant to his Teeth, he is a Villain.
Gand.
Mercy, gentle Borgia, mercy!
Bella.
He gentle; then the Devils themselves have mercy,
O Monster, rocky Villain, Tyger, Hell-hound,
Seize him you Fiends, and Furies dam him, dam him,
May Hell have infinite stories, and this Devil
Be damn'd beneath the bottomless Foundation.
Borg.
By Heav'n she weeps: here, dip her Handkerchief
Dip'd in his blood, and bid her dry her eyes.
Bella.
O thou Eternal Mover of the Heav'ns,
Where are thy Bolts?
Gand.
I go, O Bellamira!
Think'st thou, alas, that we shall know each other
In the bright World; I fear we shall not—Oh!
56
Let Bellamira live, and I forgive thee.—
Dies.
Bella.
He's gone; to Heav'n he's gone, as sure as thou
Shalt sink to Hell, thou Tyrant, double damn'd:
Nay, thou would'st have me rage, and I will rage,
And weep, and rage, and show thee to the world,
Thou Priest, Archbishop, Cardinal, and Duke,
Thou that hast run through all Religous Orders,
And with a form of Vertue cloak'd thy horrors!
Thou proper Son of that old cursed Serpent,
Who daubs the holy Chair with Blood and Murders:
But sure the Everlasting has a Chain
To bind yours Charm, and link you both together;
Hells Vicar, and his first begotten Devil,
Hotter than Lucifer in all his Flames.
Enter Alonzo.
Borg.
What, hoa, Alonzo! strangle the prisoners,
Orsino! Vitellozo: haste, I say,
Without reply.—
Bella.
O spare him! spare my Father!
And I'll unsay, forswear all that I have said:
O, I have play'd the Woman now indeed,
A lying, foolish, vext, outragious Woman!
To set your Wrath against the Innocent;
There was a seeming cause for the Dukes Death
And mine; But, Oh! what has Orsino done?
Orsino loves you: Oh, that good old man!
Your Father—For so a thousand times
I've heard you call him, seen you kiss, embrace him!
Therefore he must not, cannot dye!
Borg.
Alonzo!
Alonz.
My Lord!
Borg.
Slave, I'll strangle thee
[Strikes him.
With my own hands! if thou delay'st my Vengeance:
Say, Villain, what, not dead?
Alonz.
My Lord, they are:
And, if I live, you shall repent this blow—
[Aside,
Borg.
Go, draw the Curtain; glut her eyes with Death,
And strangle her: my Veins are all on Fire,
And I could wade up to the eyes in blood.
Draw, draw the Curtain.
[Orsin. Vitellez. D. Graviana, Oliverotto, appear disguised.
Bella.
Gorgon, Medusa, Horror;
57
To clasp him in my arms, O wretched Paul,
O noble Orsin, what quite cold? pale, dead?
And you, dear Images, will you not give
One gasp of breath, one groan, one last farewel?
Horror! Confusion! and eternal shame
Light on thee for this deed: I tell thee, Borgia,
I see thee on thy Death-Bed, all on Fire,
As if some Hellish poison had inflam'd thee;
I see thee thrown ten Fathom in a Well,
Yet still come up, like Ætna's belching Flames?
Borg.
I hope thou wilt go mad, and prophesie!
Bella.
Yes, Tyrant, thus, thus to thy face I brave thee,
And tell thee in despite of Threats, e're long
Thou and thy holy Father shall be seiz'd,
And carry'd to the Everlasting Goal;
From whence not all your Spanish Cardinals,
Your Bailiffs, in red Liveries, shall redeem you—
Borg.
Dye in thy prophesie; Alonzo end her—
Bella.
Thus, on my knees then—And for terror to thee,
Hear my last prayer, and mark my dying words.
If I in thought, in word, in private act
Have yielded up this body to the Arms
Of ought that's Mortal, but inhuman Borgia!
Oh thou impartial and most awful Judge!
Shut, shut thy gates of bliss against my Soul;
But if my tortur'd vertue merits glory,
Pardon my frailties, see with what joy
I leave this life, and bring me to perfection.
[She is strangled.
Borg.
What, at her Death! she that believ'd a Heav'n,
And fear'd, a Hell, yet to depart a Lyar:
But how know I that she believ'd a Heav'n?
Or why with hopes that in the pangs of Death
I would reprieve her, might she not deny
Her Whoredom to the last? but that's unnatural!
What wouldst thou then? I will no more of this;
It clouds my brain: Hence, Alonzo, bear,
Bear the Duke of Gandia's Body to the Tiber
In some close Chair, tye at his neck a Weight,
And plung him to the Bottom.
Alonz.
my Lord 'tis done.
Ex. Executioners with the Body.
Borg.
I swear I have been cruel to my self,
For that I lov'd her, is as true, as she
Is past the sense on't: she is cold already—
58
Mach.
Ha! this is stately Mischief! what, my four Foes
Of Florence! but they are dumb. Ha! gazing there,
I like not that—
Borg.
Her lips are lovelyst ill;
The Buds, tho gather'd, keep their Damask Colour:
Yes, and there odour too! haste Machiavel,
Rush to my aid: I grow in Love with death.
She shall not dye! Run Slaves! fetch heither Spirits,
I will recover her again!
Mach.
Again to plague?
To meet again another Duke of Gandia?
Borg.
Death on that thought: no, let her dye, and rot;
The damn'd Adultress! perish the thoughts of her.
Ha, tell me, come: I will no more of her.
How shall the bodies be dispos'd? I sent
My Brother to the Tyber
Mach.
That's a trouble,
I'll find an easier way for these, and her
That sleeps within my Closet. Go, Don Michael,
Bury'em all together in quick Lime;
In some few hours the flesh will be consum'd:
Then burn the bones, and all is dust and ashes.
[Draw here the Curtains on 'em.
Borg.
I swear this body shall not be consum'd;
I'll have't embalm'd to stay a thousand years.
O Machiavel! I swear, I know not why,
But with a World of horror to my Soul,
With tremblings here, Convulsions of the heart;
As if I had some God thus whisper to me.
Thou ought'st to grieve for Bellamira's Death.
Mach.
My Lord, a very fond and foolish Fancy.
Borg.
I say, my Lord, your policy is out:
Furies and Hell! how should you judge of Love,
That never lov'd? Thou hast no taste of Love,
No sense. no rellish—why did I trust thee then?
Had any softness dwelt in that lean bosom,
My Bellamira, now had been alive:
Tho I had cause to kill her, thou hadst none;
To set me on, but honour; jealous honour!
Oh the last night! I tell thee, Pollititian!
When I run o're the vast delight, I curse thee,
And curse my self; nay wish I had been found
59
And thou lov'st me, drive her from my Memory.
[They remove her.
Tell me my Brothers Murder is discover'd;
That the four Ghosts are up again in arms:
Say any thing to make me mad, and lose
This Melancholly, which will else destroy me.
Mach.
I here the Pope has sent to Sinigallia
To call you back.
Borg.
By Heav'n, I had forgot,
And thou most opportunely has remembred:
You know twelve Cardinals were then created,
That solemn Morn that I receiv'd the Rose;
And I will tell thee, halfe those Fools are marrow,
That bought so high, shall veil their Caps for ever.
Mach.
He mends apace; 'tis but another shrug,
And then this Love, this Ague Fit is lost.
Borg.
I swear—I'll to the Wars, and ne're return
To Rome, till I have brav'd this haughty French-man,
That menac'd so of late.
Mach.
Why, this is Borgia.
Come, come, you must not droop; look up, my Lord;
Methinks I see you Crown'd Rome's Emperour.
No doubt, Sir, but among your glorious Plunder,
You'll find some Woman—
Borg.
Ha! no more, I charge thee.
I swear I was at ease, and had forgot her:
Why did'st thou wake me then, to turn me wild,
And rouze the slumbering Orders of my Soul?
To my charm'd Ears no more of Woman tell;
Name not a Woman, and I shall be well.
Like a poor Lunatick that makes his moan,
And for a time beguiles the lookers on;
He reasons well, his eyes their wildness lose,
And vows the Keepers his wrong'd sense abuse:
But if you hit the cause that hurt his Brain,
Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his Chain,
His Eye balls rowl, and he is mad again.
Exeunt.
Enter one Executioner with a dark Lanthorn, follow'd by another at a distance; they part often, look up and down, and hem to the rest.
1. Exec.
The Coast is clear, and all the Guards are gone.
2. Exec.
Hark, hark; what noise was that?
1. Exec.
The Clock struck three.
60
See, the Moon shines; haste, and call our Fellows.
Hem to 'em; that's the Sign.
1. Exec.
They come, they come.
Enter Four Executioners more; Two carry the body of the Duke of Gandia in a Chair; the others follow, and scout behind.
3. Exec.
So—set him down, and let 'em beat their part,
For I am weary—
4. Exec.
And so am I: I sweat; but 'tis with fear.
1. Exec.
Make no more words on't; take him from the Chair.
2. Exec.
A ghastly sight. The Weight about his Neck
Has bent him almost double: I'll not touch him—
3. Exec.
Cowardly Villain—Come, my Princely Master,
The Fishes want their Break fast.
4. Exec.
Joyn all together,
And hurl him o're this Wall into the Tyber.
2. Exec.
Fly, fly—I hear a noise: The Guards, the Guards.
3. Exec.
He lies, he lies; the Coynage of his fears;
Once more, I say, joyn all your hands together.
Remember the Reward, two thousand Crowns
A Man: but for that Milk-sop, I suspect him;
Therefore let's watch our time, decoy him on;
And when this business is a little o're,
Strangle him in some Corner, lest he prate
Of what is done. Now, now's the time, away—
They joyn all together; take him by the Legs and Arms, and hurl him over the Wall into the Tyber: A noise is heard, as of a Body falling into the Water—They look about once more, then start, take up the Chair, and run out—Scene shuts.
SCENE II.
Enter Borgia and Machiavel.Mach.
Though Orsini, the Vitelli, and Colonni
Are hush'd; the Spaniard, and the French, no doubt,
Would buy your Friendship at the dearest rate.
Nay, more; I yield you Lord of Tuscany,
And Master of such Forces as might march
Against the haughtiest Power of Christendom:
But Prince, forgive me, if I am too free,
Do you remember whence this glory comes,
And how this Golden Fortune is deriv'd?
61
And when another Pope succeeds, who knows
But he may strip you bare of all those Honours
Which this has given, and turn you to the World.
Borg.
No, Machiavel, I am prepar'd for Fate,
Though Alexander should expire to night.
First, who is left of all the Families
I have defac'd, if a new Pope were made,
To say I wrong'd 'em; none that I remember:
'Tis not my way to lop; for then the Tree
May sprout again; but root him, and he lies
Never to bluster. But I will tell thee,
Quite to unhinge that hold, no Pope shall e're
Be fix'd in Rome, while Borgia is alive,
But by this hand. The Gentry are all mine
For ever, gain'd by Presents and Preferments:
The Spanish Cardinals are mine devoted,
With all that are conspicuous in the College:
What then can Fortune do? I laugh at her;
Spurn all those Shrines and Altars, which weak Wretches,
Hero's and Fools, devoutly raise to gain her.
Mach.
Yet hear me, Borgia, hear the oddest story
That ever Melancholly told the World:
This morning, being early in the Vatican,
Far in the Library, at the upper end,
Methought I saw two stately Humane Forms,
Lying at a distance, wrapt in Linen Shrouds:
Approaching nearer with a stedfast gaze,
As now I look upon the Prince I honour,
I saw the Figure of the Pope your Father
Stretcht on the Floor, pale, ghastly, cold and dead;
And by his side, with horrour upon horrour,
And double tremblings, saw my Lord, your self,
My very Cæsar, like a new-laid Ghost,
Swoln black, and bloated, while your inclos'd eyes,
All blood-shot, fixt on mine their dreadful beams.
Borg.
Fumes, fumes, my Machiavel, the effects of phlegm;
Gross humors, fumes, which from thy thicker blood
Stream up like Vapours from a foggy pool.
Mach.
I am apt to think it but a leap of fancy,
A jading of the mind, which, quite tired out
With thoughts eternal toil, strikes from the road:
Yet, as you prize your life, let me conjure you,
Beware Ascanio, his long red Coat
Hides a most mortal and inveterate Foe.
62
I know him Machiavel, and sooth him on,
As he would me. But Borgia does assure thee,
That he, that scarlet poisonous Luxury,
With his adherent Brothers, shall this night,
Even in the midst of Kisses, Oaths, Embraces,
Burst in the Vatican, and shed their Venom.
Mach.
Your Father is a Master of his breast,
The occasion gives new life, fresh vigour to him,
Even at the very verge of bottomless death,
He stands and smiles as careless and undaunted,
As wanton swimmers on a Rivers brink
Laugh at the rapid stream.
Borg.
Therefore my Friend,
Let us despise this Torrent of the World,
Fortune, I mean, and dam her up with Fences,
Banks, Bulworks, all the Fortresses, which Vertue,
Resolv'd and man'd like ours, can raise against her;
That if she does o're-flow, she may at least
Bring but half Ruine to our great designs:
That being at last asham'd of her own weakness,
Like a low-bated flood, she may retire
To her own bounds, and we with pride o're-look her.
Enter Don Michael, and the Butler.
D. Mich.
My Lord, your Servant waits as you appointed.
Borg.
Are my Provisions come?
Butl.
They are, my Lord.
Borg.
Do you remember what I gave in charge?
Butl.
That none should touch the gilded flask of wine.
Borg.
I charge thee none, but such as I shall order.
Don Michael, is my Father yet arriv'd?
D. Mich.
He is, my Lord, and gone.
Borg.
Say'st thou?
D. Mich.
When first he enter'd, quite o'recome with heat;
Thirsting, and faint with the hot seasons rage,
He call'd for wine, and tho disswaded from it,
Drank largely, mingled with the Cardinals,
And walk'd, and laugh'd, play'd with Columbus Boys,
Heard their rude Musick, and beheld 'em dance;
When on a sudden starting up, he ask'd
For you, my Lord; bow'd, as his Custom is,
With deep humility to all, desir'd 'em
To sit, and so went out—but with a promise
Of a most quick return—
63
Enter Ascanio, Adrian, Enna, Ange, two Cardinals more.
Ascan.
My Lord, the Vatican Society,
Who were oblig'd to sacrifice this night,
As every looser Genius should inspire,
To Air, and Wine, and warmer Conversation,
Grow dull for want of you: His Holiness
Himselfs retir'd—Therefore let us entreat you—
Borg.
O my good Lord Ascanio, I am born.
To be at your Command—My Lords, I wait you.
Sirrah, remember him—I charge thee fill
Of the gilt Flask to him—
Butl.
My Lord—I shall.
This Wine is sure the richest of the World,
Because he charges me so strictly of it:
That Cardinal's a Friend, and he must taste it.
Ascan.
Lord Machiavel, you have been charitable, I thank your love;
Nay, with my life, I thank you—
Mach.
My Lord—I wish you would explain your self.
Ascan.
It needs not, Sir, for this the meanest know,
The Rabble, base Mechanicks talk of murders:
I saw a sweating Weaver in his Shirt,
Ran puffing with his Shuttle in his hand,
To ask a Neighbour Butcher of the news,
Who with his Knife in's mouth abruptly tells
Orsino's death; yes, and his Daughters too:
Then comes a Taylor with his hair tuck'd back,
Behind his ears, on tiptoes, in his Slippers,
And crys in haste, the Duke of Gandia's murder'd:
Then spits upon his Iron, cast up his eyes,
Threads through the company, as 'twere a Needle,
And vanishes; no more, my Lord, I thank you.
Nay, by my life, but for the Company,
I'd kiss the bottom of your Robe; your Lordships ever:
Your Highness servant: My Lord, let's drink a Health to
His Holiness—But in my heart, I say, the Devil take him.
Borg.
Lord Machiavel, you are my Guest to night:
Were the Society made up of Gods,
As sure it is of Saints, Spirits above
The common Elevation; yet this man,
I say, my Lords, this Human Prodigy,
64
To dazle with the brightest being here.
Wine there!—My Lord Ascanio Sforza,
Health to all here, and to the general joy—
[Drinks.
Ascan.
Fine work, my Lords, fine work, I say, look to't,
The Duke of Gandia's murder'd.
Adrian.
'Tis the common rumour.
Ennn.
The Pope this morning in the Consistory,
When first he heard the News, leap'd from his Throne,
Crossing his Breast, and looking up to Heav'n,
He vow'd hereafter most severe amendment,
As from this time to fast for Forty hours.
And all his life wear next his humble flesh,
A Shirt of Hair.
Ascan.
A Shirt of Hair, bating Lucretian nights:
She'll not endur't; look you, her skin's too tender:
A Shirt of Hair, a very prickling Penance.
Now, by my Holy-dame, meer Letchery:
Don't I know him? Slave, more Wine, I say,
Fill up my Glass: Come, come, my Lords, 'tis time
To look about us, and reform the Church—
[Drinks.
Prune it, I say; or else like Babylon,
Like Babel's Whore, 'twill run up all to seed.
Hark you, Lord Ange.
Ang.
My Lord.
Ascan.
My Lord of Enna too; we four are
As one Soul: This Pope's a very leud
And wicked Head;—he's never well, but
When he's plotting Murders. Why, look you, Sirs,
If a Man cannot speak his mind of
State Affairs,—but he must streight be
Dogg'd by Hell-hounds, Blood-suckers, Decoyers,
Rascals, that watch to throttle him in some
By-corner, then quoit him like a Cat into
The River, 'tis very fine: Now, by my Holy-dame,
It may be our turn next—by the Mass it may;
I say, my Lord, it may—
The Indian Boys dance.
Ha, my Lords, how do you
Like the motion? Very pretty, very fine.
O brave Columbus! More Wine there; a bigger
Glass: I'll drink Columbus's health—Now, by my
Holy-dame, I am frolicksome, and will be active.
Ha, my Lords, ha, I learnt at Paris, when I was
A Stripling; yet these are pretty Children, very fine Boys.—
65
D. Mich.
My Lord, I grieve to bring you Mortal News,
Which were I silent, yet in some few Minutes
Must wound your Ears; your Father's dead.
Borg.
Hence, Raven,
Thou Boder of the blackest deed of Death!
My Lords, this Villain says the Pope's dead;
Went he not hence but now, sound, firm, and healthful,
And promis'd to return?
D. Mich.
My Lord, he did:
But 'tis most certain, e're he went from hence,
As all our best Physitians give an Oath,
He was by some pernicious Traytor poyson'd.
Borg.
O Machiavel, where is our forecast now?
My heart misgives me, and my bosom's hot.
Who ministred? who gave my Father Wine?
D. Mich.
Your Servant: for when first your Father enter'd,
His own Provisions were not come.
Borg.
O Confusion!
Answer me, Villain! ha! fill'd you his Wine?
Butl.
My Lord, I did.
Borg.
What, from the gilded Flask? why dost thou tremble?
Horrour consume thee, gnaw thee, burn thy Entrails,
Wilt thou not speak?
Butl.
My Lord, by your strict Charge,
That none should taste those Flasks but whom you order'd,
I judg'd the Wine most Excellent, and gave
Part of it to your Father—
Borg.
O damn'd Dolt!
Curst, sensless Dog! Now, Machiavel, where are we?
Ha! by the Furies that invade my Breast,
And crumble all my Bowels into dust,
I am caught my self! Speak, tell me, horrid Villain,
Or I will have thee dragg'd in Thousand Pieces;
Torn by mad Horses like the flesh of Dogs:
Thou gav'st me Wine too from the gilded Flasks! ha, Traytor!
Come, double damn thy self, and swear thou did'st not.
Butl.
My Lord—I must confess I gave the same
To you, that was directed for your Friend,
My Lord Ascanio.
Borg.
Take thy reward then, which the Devil thou pour'st
Into my Breast, thus gives thee back again!
O Machiavel, O do not look upon me;
66
O basely, basely sold by my own wild.
Ascan.
Oh, oh, oh—I have my share on't too, the Devil
Thank you—Fire, fire, fire! oh my Guts—brimstone
And fire—haste there—fly for Antidotes.
Borg.
None, none on Earth,
I tell thee, Priest, can save thy rotten Carkass;
No Cardinal, lye down, lye down, and roar,
Think on thy Scarlet sins, and fear Damnation.
Ascan.
Legions of Furies here, Hell is broke loose,
And all the Devils are quarter'd in my Bowels.
Run Slave! and for a last revenge, produce
His mangled Bastard—that's some pleasure yet.
Borg.
O Machiavel, thy hand, I am all flames;
Yet thou shalt hear no noise: sit down, my Friend,
Upon the Earth—for there's my Mansion now,
Dust, and no more—and yet methinks 'twas hard
That this Elaborate Scheme of mighty Man,
This Parchment, where the Lines of Roman greatness
By thee so well were drawn, should by the hand
Of scribling Chance be blotted thus for ever.
Ascan.
I burn, I burn, I toste, I roste, and my Guts fry,
They blaze, they snap, they bounce like Squibs
And Crackers: I am all fire—
Mach.
Is't possible that you can bear the pangs
Of violent poyson, thus unmov'd?
Borg.
'Tis little
To one resolv'd: No, let the Coward Statesman,
Women, and Priests, whine at the thoughts of death;
For me, whose mind was ever fierce and active,
Death is unwelcom, only for this reason,
Because 'tis an Eternal laziness—
Enter Alonzo, leading in Seraphino, with his Eyes out, and Face cut.
Mach.
I must confess my mind, by what I saw
This morning, and by what has happen'd since,
Is deeply shockt, even from her own Foundation.
Ascan.
Bear the blind Bastard to his Father, go,
And bid him laugh—oh!
Mach.
Horrour! new horrour!
My Lord, your Son, by that most bloody Cardinal,
Mangled and blind.
67
Why dost thou wonder at it?
'Tis all the work of Chance, and trick of Fortune?
Yet this methinks is horrible indeed.
Come hither Boy—
Serap.
Alas, I hear your Voice,
And cannot find the way;
But am like one benighted in a Wood.
Borg.
A Wood indeed;
But oh the Brambles there have us'd thee vilely.
Serap.
O Father, you are arm'd, and have a Sword;
Will you not, for your Seraphino's sake,
Cut down those Thorns that prick'd out both my eyes?
I know you will; for you were always kind
And tender of me: oft-times have you held me
Fast in your Arms, and smil'd, and plaid with me;
Though you're a Prince, a very busie Prince,
And call'd me little Eyes, little indeed,
For now they're out, and all my Face is cut:
Nay, they have starv'd me too.
Borg.
Death and horrour!
Serap.
Why do you press me thus between your Arms,
As if you lov'd me still? I am sure you cannot.
Pray let me hide my Face within your Bosom;
For if you look upon me I shall fright you.
O! I've a pain here just about my heart!
When, you my Lord, a long time after me
Shall dye, will you not lay my little Bones
By yours? Alas! my pain encreases—Oh—
[Dies
Borg.
Revenge thee, Boy! I ask but that from Fate:
And see 'tis given me: Through a thousand Wounds,
Thus, horrid Priest! purge out thy lustful blood,
[Stabs Ascan.
And Vomit thy black Soul—
Ascan.
Oh! Devil! Devil! Devil—
[Dies.
Borg.
No, Machiavel, 'tis now fit time to rave;
For I am now enrag'd to that degree,
That I will live even in despight of Fortune,
Stars! Fates! and all the Juggles of a Heaven.
Hence, bear me, Slaves, and plunge me into Tyber,
Deep as I sunk the Duke of Gandia down!
Till I have quench't this Hell within my bowels;
Then slay me an Oxe-hide, and swadle me,
Like Hercules in the Nemean skin.
'Till all my poison'd flesh like bark pills off,
And my bare Trunck stands every brushing wind!
68
Where are our Guards? My Lords, I judge it fit
That Machiavel and Borgia should be seiz'd.
Borg.
Seize me! what sawcy Priest durst start that motion?
Am I not Tyrant here? The Lord of Rome?
Does not France dread my Frown? and Spain adore me?
Who then dares talk of seizing me? what, he?
This wag tail Priest, with the black picked Beard,
That scowrs the Country round for freckled Wenches?
Or was it you my Lord of Enna? Ha!
Death, where's my Majesty, or vail your Caps,
Or I will trample you beneath my Feet?
You, Ange! that could prostitute your Sister
To gain a Hat? lye there Lord of St. Peter:
You Cardinal ad Vincula, you pack of Hell-hounds,
That trace me by the blood. On, on I say,
On to the brink of Hell: Thence plunge together,
Where, on his Throne, behold the Master Devil
With a great pair of glowing Horns red hot
To gore you for your lives incontinence,
You Ravishers, you Virgin pioners,
You Cuckold-makers of the forked World.
Ange.
Where are your Guards?
Borg.
Hark, I hear 'em coming:
Or is it Dooms day? Ha—by Hell it is:
And see, the Heav'ns, and Earth, and Air are all
On fire: the very Seas, like Moulten-glass,
Rowl their bright Waves, and from the smoky deep
Cast up the glaring Dead: The Trumpet sounds,
And the swift Angels skim about the Globe
To summon all Mankind. Rome, Rome is call'd.
Work, work for Hell. Hoa, Satan! Belzebub!
Belial, and Baal—Whence this Thunderclap?
They've blown us up with Wild-fire in the Air;
And look how the ball'd Fryers in Russet-gowns
Croak like old Vultures, how the flutt'ring Jesuits,
In black and white, chatter about the Heav'ns!
Capuchins Monks, with the whole Tribe of Knaves!
Then let me burst my spleen! Look how the Tassels,
Caps, Hats and Cardinals Coats, and Cowls and Hoods
Are tost about—the sport, the sport of Winds—
Indulgences, Dispences, Pardons, Bulls, see yonder!
Priest, they fly—they're whirld aloft. They fly,
They fly or'e the backside o'th'world,
Into a Limbo large, and broad, since call'd the Paradise
Of Fools.
69
'Tis just we give him way! this fit of rage
Has wasted him to Death, see he breaths short,
The Taper's spent, and this is his last Blaze.
Borg.
Ha! Breath I short? Prelate, thou ly'st: my pulse
Beats with a constant fire, and spritely motion;
The strings of my tough Heart as strong as ever:
No—I will live; in spight of Fate I'll live
To be the scourge of Rome: I'll live to act
New mischiefs, and create new wicked Popes,
To ponyard Heretick Princes that refuse
To lay their Necks beneath the holy Slipper.
Murder successively two Kings of France;
Britain attempt, though her most watchful Angel
Saves the Lov'd Monarch of that happy Isle,
And turns upon our selves the plotted Wound,
That sinks me to the Earth: yet still we'll on,
And hatch new deeds of darkness: O Hell, and Furies!
Why should we not, since the great Head himself
Will back my Plots, joyn me in blood and horror,
And after give me Bond for my Salvation:
I swear I will—I'll have it—nay, Sir, you shall—
Or I will thunder to your Holiness:
But hark he whispers, what a little Gold—
With all my heart: thus Devils buy souls for trash—
I'll see your itching palm for Absolution.
Gold for my pardon, hey—'tis seal'd and given!
And for a Ducat thus I purchase Heav'n—
[Dies.
Mach.
The mighty soul there forc'd her furious passage,
And plunges now in deep Eternity—
I see, my Lords, you have resolv'd to guard me,
And I submit to strict Examination:
By you to be acquitted or condemned?
Yet this I must avow before you all,
Though you should cast me to the Inquisition,
Skill'd as I am in all Affairs of Earth,
Known both to Popes and Kings, and often honour'd
With Cabinet Councils of Imperial Heads;
I here resolve on this, as my last Judgment;
No Power is safe, nor no Religion good,
Whose Principles of growth are laid in Blood.
| Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth | |