 | Imperiale, a tragedie |  |
Scena Quarta.
Evagrio. Fidele. Spinola.Eva.
Oh that I were snatcht up into the skye!
And there transform'd into a cloud, that so
I might dissolve into a shower of teares.
Fid.
Can the day see such mischiefe, and be seene?
And not make haste to shrowd his guilty head
Vnder the gloomy Canopy of night?
Spin.
What earthquake? what prodigious spectacle
Hath strucke you both with horror?
Eva.
Oh he's dead!
Spin.
Why should that so amaze or you? or me?
Since death must be the lot of every man.
Fid.
Alas your sonne.
Spin.
How does it concerne him?
Eva.
Great sir, your deare and onely sonne is slaine.
Spi.
How's this?
Fid.
He's murther'd sacrilegiously,
Even in the Temple-porch, he was disguis'd,
And thought of all t'have bin Imperiale.
Spin.
I am undone.
Fid.
The desperate actor was
Clad in a country habit, and it seemes,
Mistooke the person; when he saw his face,
He tore his viperous haire; the Iudge was present,
Who gave command to bring him instantly,
To receive speedy judgement,
Over-reach't?
In my owne plot? the sword of my revenge
Turn'd on my selfe? and drown'd in mine owne bowels?
I am betraid, yet cannot suspect how;
It could not be by any mortall subtilty,
It was some divell lurking in the ayre;
How shall I be reveng'd? O that he would
Assume a humane body, that I might
Encounter him! but I have found the way,
I'le study the blacke art, turne Conjurer,
And then impose a labour on them all,
Worse then Jxion, or the Belides
Are said to undergoe.
Eva.
We have done ill,
To rush upon him with such violence;
The sudden griefe hath halfe distracted him;
Wee'l strive to temper it with better hopes,
Things may not be so bad as our affections
Have made us feare; Francisco Spinola
Was often nam'd.
Fid.
But neither of us both
Can say we saw him dead.
Spin.
Nay then I see
Y'are villaines hir'd, suborn'd to undermine me.
First you confound me with your horrid newes,
And then confesse ye may be both mistaken:
But I am arm'd with patience, if Jmperial
Retaining still his late abjured malice,
Hath by some hellish art contriv'd this mischiefe,
I may in just resentment of my wrongs,
Implore heavens vengeance, on his perjur'd head,
And this is all y'are like to screw from me.
Fid.
Let not your troubled thoughts make you doubt us,
Who for his life would sacrifice our own.
Spi.
I will devise a stratagem, shall need
No other hand but this, which I'le conceale
From my owne selfe, till th'instant time of action;
For if I should disclose it in a place
Where there are trees, or flowers, I am betraid:
After a dreadfull thunder, that had purg'd
The ayre, and frighted thence those subtill spies,
That to our foes by night betray our plots.
Eva.
You have a faithfull friend, to whom you may
Safely powre out the secrets of your heart,
The wise Justinian.
Spin.
Oh that name is like
A pretious balme to cure the wounds of fortune!
Fid.
Please you retire, I'le bring him presently.
Spi.
No wilde rebellion of my passions can
Make me neglect the friendship of that man.
| Imperiale, a tragedie | |