University of Virginia Library

Scena quinta.

Vitellio
disguised.
I wonder Malatesta still suruiues:
Sure Sforza has forgot himselfe; my death
Does but halfe cleare him, and if th'other liue,
He cannot looke for a full innocence.
It is not mercy, certainly: ô, no,
Mercy with him is folly: but t'may bee
He feares that had he kild vs both at once
Rumor would be too busie, and all mouths
Would cry, that Chance had too much proiect in't.
This is the place of Destiny, 'tis here
Sforza does actuate his bloody arts,
Mistaking priuacy for innocence,
And thinkes hee's good, because he is not seene.
Here must I wayte for a discouery.

Enter Sforza.
Sf.
I must once more be cruell, yet not I,
This is the murther of Necessity:
But what has he deseru'd, who has done nought
But what we charg'd, and so perform'd our thought?
Is Death due to Obedience? can this hand
Yeeld to his Fate, that seal'd to his command?
Yet he, or I must perish: shall I see
My life, my honor, my Æternity,
Lye at his mercy, and be safe, so long
As he is pleas'd to temper his rude tongue?
Till he be drunke, or treacherous? Ile first
Study amongst all actions, which is worst
And ouer-act it: though our former deed
Was from ambition, this is yet from need:
Death is too good reward for such a slaue,
Enter Malatesta.
And sure there is no blabbing in the graue.
But here he comes: why are thy looks so grim?
Why, Malatesta, in thy furrow'd face
See I the signes of Anger, or of Griefe?
Command thy face to a more smiling forme,
That I may thinke thee pleas'd when thou dost tell
What does displease thee.

Mal.
'Twas a foolish dreame,
That stole my colour from my paler cheekes.
Last night I saw Uitellio.

Sf.
And what?
Canst thou feare shadowes?

Mal.
Yes if shadowes speake,
If that their threatnings be substantiall.
From such a paper as your Highnesse holds,
He forc't me breath in Death.

Sf.
This Paper holds
A strange perfume, of such a cunning vertue,
That at a distance it scarce smels at all.
And at the nose it gives the best of sents.
Make the experiment:

Mal.
O! I am slaine.

Sf.
Heau'ns what a stilnesse here is? what a death
Of the whole man at once? the wandring eye
Now findes a station, and the busie pulse
Is now for euer idle: where's the tongue
That but eu'n now could say as much as this,
When that the soule could prompt it? but e'en now
Here was a thing could speake, and poison too,
That knew more wayes to kill, then euer Heau'n
Did to make man: and could his subtlety,
That could giue death, not know to keepe out death?
Fye, what a bulke it is, what a great lumpe
Of Nothing, that shall lose that nothing too?
What a dead toy is Man, when his thin breath
Flyes to its kindred Ayre? ô why at all
Did Heau'n bestow, or why at all bereaue
Man of this Vapour of Eternity?
And must we one day be a stocke like this,
Fit onely to inrich the greedy Earth,
And fill an house of Death, perhaps before
We see the issue of another Plot?
Must we lye subiect to be trampled on,
By some, perhaps not Politicians?
Where's then our Wisedome? our deepe Prouidence
Are they durt too? ô heau'ns! but if they are
Enter some Negroes to cary away the body.
Or durt, or nothing, Ile enioy my fame.
And rottennesse shall ceize me, not my name.

Vit.
Are those the Instruments? well my black friends,
I eas'd you of a labour: all succeeds
According to the flatt'ry of my wish,
And my suspition turnes to prophecy.
But my so bloody, and so wary Sforza,
Your Agent's dead, but not your crime: 'twill out,
And by this carcasse: I will flye to France,
Divulge loud papers,—they are writ already,—
And here they are, these I will sweare were found
In the dead pois'ners pockets: by this meanes
Sforza's proclaim'd a murtherer, I'me freed,
And make it be his guilt, which was my deed.

Uitellio going forth meets with Isabella.