 | The Tragedy of The Dutchesse of Malfy |  |
SCENA I.
Antonio, and Delio, Duchesse, Ferdinand, Bosola.Ant.
Our noble friend (my most beloued Delio)
Oh, you haue bin a stranger long at Court,
Came you along with the Lord Ferdinand?
Del.
I did Sir, and how faires your noble Duchesse?
Ant.
Right fortunately well: She's an excellent
Feeder of pedegrees: since you last saw her,
She hath had two children more, a sonne, and daughter.
Del.
Me thinkes 'twas yester-day: Let me but wincke,
And not behold your face, which to mine eye
Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dreame
It were within this halfe houre.
Ant.
You haue not bin in Law, (friend Delio)
Nor in prison, nor a Suitor at the Court
Nor beg'd the reuersion of some great mans place,
Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth make
Your time so inseucibly hasten.
Del.
'Pray Sir tell me,
Hath not this newes arriu'd yet to the eare,
Of the Lord Cardinall?
Ant.
I feare it hath,
The Lord Ferdinand, (that's newly come to Court,)
Doth beare himselfe right dangerously.
Del.
Pray why?
Ant.
He is so quiet, that he seemes to sleepe
The tempest out (as Dormise do in Winter,)
Those houses, that are haunted, are most still,
Del.
What say the common people.
Ant.
The common-rable, do directly say
She is a Strumpet.
Del.
And your grauer heades,
(Which would he pollitique) what censure they?
Ant.
They do obserue, I grow to infinite purchase
The leaft-hand way, and all suppose the Duchesse
Would amend it, if she could: For, say they
Great Princes, though they grudge their Officers
Should haue such large, and vnconfined meanes
To get wealth vnder them, will not complaine
Least thereby they should make them odious
Vnto the people, for other obligation
Of loue, or marriage, betweene her and me,
They neuer dreame off.
Del.
The Lord Ferdinand
Is going to bed.
Ferd.
I'll instantly to bed,
For I am weary: I am to be be-speake
A husband for you.
Duch.
For me (Sir?) 'pray who is't?
Ferd.
The great Count Malateste.
Duch.
Fie vpon him,
A Count? he's a meere sticke of sugar-candy,
(You may looke quite thorough him) when I choose
A husband, I will marry for your honour.
Ferd.
You shall do well in't: How is't (worthy Antonio?)
Duch.
But (Sir) I am to haue priuate conference with you,
About a scandalous report, is spread
Touching mine honour.
Ferd.
Let me be euer deafe to't:
One of Pasquils paper-bullets, court calumney,
A pestilent ayre, which Princes pallaces
Are seldome purg'd off: Yet, say that it were true,
I powre it in your bosome, my fix'd loue,
Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay deny
In your owne innocency.
Duch.
Oh bless'd comfort,
This deadly aire is purg'd.
Exeunt.
Ferd.
Her guilt treads on
Hot burning cultures: Now Bosola,
How thriues our intelligence?
Bos.
(Sir) vncertainly,
'Tis rumour'd she hath had three bastards, but
By whom, we may go read i'th'Starres.
Ferd.
Why some
Hold opinion, all things are written there.
Bos.
Yes, if we could find Spectacles to read them,
I do suspect, there hath bin some Sorcery
Vs'd on the Duchesse.
Ferd.
Sorcery, to what purpose?
Bos.
To make her doate on some desertles fellow,
She shames to acknowledge.
Ferd.
Can your faith, giue way
To thinke there's powre in potions, or in Charmes,
To make vs loue, whether we will or no?
Bos.
Most certainely.
Ferd.
Away, these are meere gulleries, horred things
Inuented by some cheating mounte-banckes
To abuse vs: Do you thinke that hearbes, or charmes
Can force the will? Some trialls haue bin made
In this foolish practise; but the ingredients
Were lenatiue poysons, such as are of force
To make the patient mad; and straight the witch
Sweares (by equiuocation, they are in loue.
The witch-craft lies in her rancke bood: this night
I will force confession from her: You told me
You had got (within these two dayes) a false key
Into her Bed-chamber.
Bos.
I haue.
Ferd.
As I would wish.
What doe you intend to doe?
Ferd.
Can you ghesse?
Bos.
No:
Ferd.
Doe not aske then:
He that can compasse me, and know my drifts,
May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the world,
And sounded all her quick-sands.
Bos.
I doe not
Thinke so.
Ferd.
What doe you thinke then? pray?
Bos.
That you are
Your owne Chronicle too much: and grosly
Flatter your selfe.
Ferd.
Giue me thy hand, I thanke thee:
I neuer gaue Pention but to flatterers,
Till I entertained thee: farewell,
That Friend a Great mans ruine strongely checks,
Who railes into his beliefe, all his defects.
Exeunt.
| The Tragedy of The Dutchesse of Malfy | |