University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Court before the Emperor's Palace.
Montferrat and Philip meeting.
Montf.
Good-morrow, Philip, welcome to this city.

Phil.
My Lord! thy city.

Montf.
Why, Murtzoufle's off,
Past through the eastern gate ere dawn.

Phil.
He has left
His blood-cakes spread unto the moon to break,
Before they baked. Pardon, my Lord—thy wound?

Montf.
Thanks to thy care, 'tis waxing well perhaps.

Phil.
It was not mortal only by an inch.

Montf.
Well, things in season, we may pile our arms.
What! man look brisk—go shuffling through the streets.
Thy face is not in season.

Phil.
I shall smile;
For thousands say Montferrat shall be king.
Murtzoufle set because he rose too soon.
Start! from the horizon to the mid-day heavens,
When men look'd for no star, there was he moving,
Showing prime planet: but his stuff was crude:
And now he's dull and flat, as leaden sea
That creeps o'er the sunless shore. He took no pains
To set his power on many points of base.
Besides, though daring, he has wat'ry flaws
'Midst hardest stuff. A vulgar pride of heart
Bullies men's eyes and casts no spots of care.
Reckless he seems, but on the whole is coward.
His prince he slew, and this which rais'd his power,
Would soon have sunk him: for the dread suspicion
Which murder breeds, prey'd on his nerve of power;
And soon had made his reign a private care
The bulwark of one life:—So much for tyrants
That slack a moment on their dreadful stream.
Add death to death, ye men that climb on daggers,
Yet are ye fools.

Montf.
And thou art dangerous;
So keen;—so keen:—when did you know Murtzoufle?

Phil.
Hints, hints, my Lord—a countryman of mine,
Too quick for tyrant's use, has oft been near him.
Yet had there been no merit to predict,
The man unknown, the downfall of the power.
Old worm-bit reign, like old annuitant,
Oft longwhile hangs on crutches of decay;
Like tottering wall, by shaking rubbish down,
It heaps a sort of strength around its base.
Not so the mushroom power of red usurper;
Not back'd by desp'rate aids, and lucky hits,
Quickly it falls a solitary strength.
Well, such the guilt,—the folly—what you will,—
The getting up. But O the glorious end!
Above control:—the come and go to men:
And vengeance too, we'll have revenge, my Lord;
The wrath of princes lasts, old Homer sings.
The power of secret things is at command;
The marts of hidden knowledge: This his portrait;—
(O I can draw the model of a king,)
Accessible or not, no mid degrees;
Proud as a burnish'd war-horse in the sun,
Beauteous as wild beast of the wilderness;
And somewhat cruel—and a scornful lip—
And powerful gaze—and ever shy in peace;
The soldier's ready spirit.—Go be a king.
I call'd this city thine, and is it not?
'Tis fairly won. I saw the pomp to-day.
Ha! ha! the cow'ring city cried for mercy,
With young girls—and old girls—and boys and men;
And show'd its wealth, more than humility.
They look'd to thee.—
I caught the truer sense of hoary men,
They turn and say, Montferrat shall be king.

Montf.
Well, thou shalt be physician-general
When I am king, astrologer or chief
Of my state jugglers.

Phil.
Pardon, my Lord—thy wound
Is full of pains?

Montf.
Ay, thou wilt be physician?
Well, thou hast skill: in faith 'tis very sore.

Phil.
I knew it by thy words of twitching force.
My Lord, I never jest—and mark at present,—
There looks an Emp'ror:—and thy claim is best
Of all our princes.

Montf.
We shall meet to-day.

Phil.
Ere then make int'rest.

Montf.
Make the devil, good fellow.
D'ye think I shall be king?

Phil.
You may, my Lord.

Montf.
Why, there's the Doge of Venice;
Baldwin besides, and Montmorency too,
My gallant friend, with his sweet eastern bride,
A princess of the blood, and near the throne.
Faith, were she mine, I should not doubt a moment.
Well boy, I care not, I shall o'er the plain
To Palestine, the land of the bright swords.—

(is going.)
Phil.
My Lord—a moment—

Montf.
I'll see you in an hour,
And have my wound dress'd.

Phil.
You did'nt mean to mock me?

Montf.
No—thou art fool, if thou wilt not be juggler.

Phil.
And who is he that mocks the awful power,
That reads the stars, the heraldry of Heaven;
Whose aspects are th' escutcheons of all things,
Plague and the earthquake, and the thunder-fires?
I'd die that death, if I could know the power
That burns from out the cloud:—o'er mortal life,
It glances, and we die. The earthly fires
Are awful as they go; and when they roost,
With long-neck'd flames by night, in upper-chambers
Of the old forest, when the wind blows dry,
They do their work: but we can mark their path.
Not so the out-bolts of black heaven that scathe,
When the eye winks, a multitude of things—
And then the hidden sea—I take thy promise.
Now swear, my Lord, to give me means to search
These secret things, when thou hast mighty wealth.

Montf.
Well, I have sworn, when thou hast made me king,
To grant thee all.

Phil.
I'll cure thy wound, my Lord,
This day—this hour.

Montf.
But stay—without the leave
Of Montmorency you can't follow me.

Phil.
Aha! my Lord; but death
Binds the wan tenants of his sepulchres.
Murtzoufle sent him to the marble house.

Montf.
This morn he liv'd.

Phil.
Who saw him?

Montf.
Myself.

Phil.
But I am not his slave; and thou hast sworn.
I'll cling to thee for ever.

Montf.
We'll look to that.

[Exit Montferrat.
Phil.
I shall make interest for thee,
If I can make some votes believe that thou,
And not mine enemy, art this maiden's lover;—
Eudocia serves me too—she serves the three.
[Exit Philip.