University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

ALPHONSO.
Married! Then what a wretch art thou, ALPHONSO?
Just married!—Fates, I am your daily sport.
Born to be wretched, all my life has been
A train of strange mischances. Married! and to
My most detested foe!—Death! must this be?
It shall not, were all hell in arms to guard
This imp of treachery. My quick revenge
Shall burst this fiend-tied most unnatural knot,
And make all villains quake—

A SERVANT.
My Lady, Sir,
The Countess will attend you.

ALPHONSO.
'Tis well. I thank you.—
The Countess! Vengeance! Oh I shall run mad!—
My fluttering heart! She comes! I caught a glimpse
That charms and tortures me.

SCENE II.

ALPHONSO, OLYMPIA.
OLYMPIA.
Who's this? defend me!
What are you?

ALPHONSO.
Need I tell my name, OLYMPIA?

OLYMPIA.
I have no business with your name nor you.
What brought me hither?—

ALPHONSO.
Stay, OLYMPIA, hear me.—

OLYMPIA.
I'm not at leisure.—

ALPHONSO.
But, we part not so.
I will be heard.

OLYMPIA.
Presumptuous! are you mad?
Let go my hand.

ALPHONSO.
'Twas mine—till fate and you—

OLYMPIA.
Yours!—Never!—'Twas not fate but I that gave it,
And my heart with it, to a man ten times
Your worth. It was my voluntary deed.
I gave it to—

ALPHONSO.
A villain.

OLYMPIA.
Tell him so.

ALPHONSO.
I will; ne'er doubt it: what should hinder me?

OLYMPIA.
You will? I like your manners, to abuse
My husband to my face.

ALPHONSO.
Your husband! plagues!
A knave that should be married to the wheel.—
And you to call him husband!

OLYMPIA.
I'm not used
T' exchange high speeches with the mad. Go, leave me,
And keep your head cool.—Good God! I cannot think
What brought you here. How! leave your bride so soon!—
I've had a lucky miss.

ALPHONSO.
Alas, OLYMPIA!
How you mistake!

OLYMPIA.
In what?

ALPHONSO.
Both you and I
Are monstrously abused; the meerest dupes
That artful villainy and capricious fate
Ever combined to laugh at.

OLYMPIA.
How?

ALPHONSO.
Good God!
Can you imagine, were I so engaged
As you conceive, I should so far depart
From all propriety as this day to stun you
With impertinent complaints?

OLYMPIA.
O Heaven! what mean you?

ALPHONSO.
While you remain thus ignorant of the truth,
My conscious honour so forsakes me, that
I deem myself the traitor you suppose me.
But know, OLYMPIA—

OLYMPIA.
What?

ALPHONSO.
There never was
A heart more true to tenderness than mine.
'Twas your's, 'tis your's; you reign unrivaled there;
You ever did, and ever shall: I scorn
All other vows.

OLYMPIA.
Bless me! you rave indeed.
This is strange talk for a new-married man!

ALPHONSO.
You will not understand me, dear OLYMPIA—
I am not married.

OLYMPIA.
Horrors! Did I hear you?—
Not married!

ALPHONSO.
No.

OLYMPIA.
Not married!

ALPHONSO.
No, OLYMPIA.

OLYMPIA.
Not married!—Oh such monstrous villainy!—
I'm dizzy—hold me—ah!—

ALPHONSO.
Alas! alas!
What shall I do? Dear dear OLYMPIA!—ah me!
I fear she's dead. A sad and mortal paleness
O'erspreads her lovely face—These hands are cold
And damp as clay—She does not breathe—O God,
She's gone for ever—Dead, dead, dead, OLYMPIA!
O horrible hour!—I follow thee,—yes, thou
Shalt be my angel to conduct my flight
From this base world.—She stirs—the deadly hue
Shifts from her cheek—she breathes—she sighs—
OLYMPIA!

OLYMPIA.
Where am I?—Ah—

ALPHONSO.
Lift these sweet eyes again.

OLYMPIA.
Alas, this is no dream! I am awake.
It is ALPHONSO!—will no shock destroy me?
Ah! when shall I be dead?

OLYMPIA.
Talk not of dying.—
OLYMPIA, when you do, this world to me
Becomes a waste: 'tis little better now.

OLYMPIA.
What blows of fate the wretched may survive!
The worst I had to fear is come upon me;
And yet I live!—But—

ALPHONSO.
Something in that look
Made beauty dreadful.

OLYMPIA.
Oh, my fatal rashness!
Alas, ALPHONSO!—yet what could I do?
Provoked by false intelligence—how false
Is yet a MYSTERY; STURIO, an honest man,
Your friend, produced it. Was there room to doubt
Of his integrity? your well-known hand
Confirmed it.—God of Heaven! I must suppose
Your friend corrupted, and that letter forged.
What else?—I tore it hastily; yet still
It was so perfectly your hand, O villainy!
Ingenious villainy! 'twould have amazed you.

ALPHONSO.
Alas! this mystery is soon unravelled.
Forgive th' intemperance of a frantic fit:
'Twas mine, OLYMPIA.

OLYMPIA.
This is stranger still.
Quite inconceiveable!

ALPHONSO.
I'll tell you all:
And when I've done judge if I was to blame.
My father, as you know, when all his arts
And interest fail'd to mitigate the King,
Would needs himself accompany my exile.
So much he stomached the disgrace, he swore
The burning vault should swallow Naples ere
He touched its shore again. Besides, he felt
Too much his friend Lord STRENI's altering mind.
He dwelt on that; it stung him keenly: me
It only mortified. He strove in vain
To rouse me to resentment. Inwardly
He burnt for some fair opportunity,
That I might be the first to cancel vows
Which STRENI seemed not forward to confirm.
The opportunity he wished for came
As fate had winged it. For I had not long
Pin'd at Palermo, when a friendship grew
Between my father and the Count CASERTA;
Who from some discontent had long before
Retired from Naples thither, and still loved
By sympathy whoever hated Naples.
This noble Count, proud of his ancient blood,
Had two young daughters. The eldest JULIA,
Some time had lived confined for an attempt
To steal a marriage with a youth whose family,
Tho' not obscure, he thought no match for his.
Now grown impatient of his jealous cares,
It pleased him in my favour to let slip
Some distant hints, which with a ranc'rous joy
My father snatched; he pressed me eagerly
To seize th' occasion: as inflexibly
I waved th' unwelcome offer. Till at last
There went a rumour made my blood run cold,
That my false rival's suit was daily prospering.
When I look back, 'twas his own crafty lie,
For I can trace it to his emissaries;
Tho', blinded then and giddy with despair
And jealousy, too easily I was wrought on
To give it credit. What confirmed it too
Was that to all my frequent letters, one
Reply had ne'er been made.

OLYMPIA.
Oh Heaven!—not one
Of all those letters ever came to chear
My desolate mind. I guess'd the cause, it seems,
Too truly.—But proceed.

ALPHONSO.
Long urg'd and teiz'd
In vain, at last provoked I made my suit;
Which, from a coy reception, by degrees
Was kindly entertained: but still it made
A ling'ring progress, which I more rejoiced
Than grieved at. For, tho' JULIA was compleat
In all th' engaging ways that could be wished
In a companion; and, tho' scarce a beauty,
Had personal charms sufficient to surprize
A vacant breast; yet, ah OLYMPIA! mine
Still with vain efforts struggled to shake off
Its first lov'd conqueror's sway; and still I hoped:
Till with such plausible consistent strokes
Your marriage was reported, that self-flattery
No longer could amuse me. By this our fathers,
Tired with a dallied courtship, hurryingly
Urged on the treaty, and the day was fix'd.
'Twas now just not arrived, when late at night
Your letter came. Never was mortal breast
So tortured with conflicting powers; with joy,
With anxious hopes and fluttering fears, shame, honour.
Not for all Sicily would I again
Endure that restless night's perplexity.
Tho' 'twas determined in my mind, howe'er
The world might clamour, that all other interests,
All other decencies and duties, should
Yield to my first engagement. The morning came
On which I had to deal with difficulties
That no address, without some miracle,
Seemed equal to encounter. When, behold—
JULIA was fled!—Good God! my lighten'd soul
Grew mad with joy.—I took a hasty leave,
And hied me hither.

OLYMPIA.
Ah! you came, ALPHONSO,
But just too late. But Heaven would have it so.—
I'm doom'd to wretchedness!

ALPHONSO.
Alas, OLYMPIA!
Think on my misery!

OLYMPIA.
We both are ruined
By those who loved us, and have been too busy
To make us happy.

ALPHONSO.
Is there no resource?
No means to burst thro' all these rotten ties,
The work of treachery? Sure there are, OLYMPIA!
Heaven does not hear involuntary vows,
Vows cunningly surprized, or made in anger.
Shall the heart's vows, the ties of mutual love,
Old plighted faith, and sympathy of souls,
Yield to a mere cold formal obligation?
It must not be. I claim the elder right:
You were by all consents devoted mine,
Before this selfish in sincere profane
Intruder ever saw you. Dear OLYMPIA,
Let us oppose fair arts to impious fraud.
I have the means at hand to snatch you from
This fatal place, to where the purest vows
May soon before the holy shrine dispel
The sorcery of those sacrilegious rites;
And to its lawful owner render back
Th' inviolated prize.

OLYMPIA.
Alas! alas!
ALPHONSO, this is raving.

ALPHONSO.
Where's the difliculty?
The night comes on to favour this exploit.
Let us not curse our timid hearts hereafter
Because for fear of little squalls we lost
The tide of fortune.—Ah pity me, OLYMPIA!
To live without you is despair and frenzy.
I will not live upon such terms.

OLYMPIA.
Alas!
What you propose is neither fit nor practicable.
We needs must part—yes, we must part for ever.
Farewell, ALPHONSO?—Leave me to my fate;
No matter what it be. Farewell, farewell—
And when you think of me drop a sad tear,
And say there was a maid that lov'd me more
Than her own life. My kindest wishes still
Attend you with a warmth no time can cool;
And my last breath shall bless you. Again farewell.

ALPHONSO.
We must not part.

OLYMPIA.
We must, we must. Farewell.—
I heard a foot; it comes this way.—If e'er
You loved me, leave this place without delay.
Stay not a moment longer.—Ah ALPHONSO!—
Farewell for ever!—

ALPHONSO.
Stay, OLYMPIA! stay!—
She's gone! O Heaven!

SCENE III.

ALPHONSO, CLAUDIO.
CLAUDIO.
Good God! it is ALPHONSO!—
This is astonishing!—My dear dear friend,
This unexpected pleasure quite transports me.
Thrice welcome, dear ALPHONSO!

ALPHONSO.
Generous ALPHONSO,
I know it, and I thank your courtly words.
Would thoughts were visible, that it might appear
With what sincerity we love eash other.
But compliments apart, pray are you not
Ashamed to see me?

CLAUDIO.
Why, ALPHONSO?

ALPHONSO.
Nay,
I know how nobly some despise all shame.
But are you not afraid to see the man
Who feels his wrongs, and will no longer bear 'em?

CLAUDIO.
I never was afraid to meet my foe,
Much less to see my friend. You have no cause
I'm sure, ALPHONSO, not to be my friend.
Were all the truth known it would soon appear
How from my heart I am, and still have been,
My generous brave ALPHONSO's. Hitherto
Indeed my friendly aims have still been cross'd;
And I have felt it more perhaps than you.
Tho' now those rubs to me seem rather fortunate:
For little steps, by which each ass can climb,
Are rather checks to merit, and disgrace
Generous ambition; which at one bold flight
Should seize a station worthy of itself.
And now the time draws near, when I shall prove
By deeds with what sincerity I still
Have lov'd ALPHONSO. Something that may suit
Aspiring worth I purpose to resign;
And but retain it till my interest has
Secured it yours. Nay were you not my friend,
Of all men living I should wish it yours:
Because I love my country as I ought,
And would be honoured in my successor.

ALPHONSO.
Fine words! enough to make a gull of one
That did not know you. But they cost you nothing—
You talk of friendship! and to me, presumptuous!
You never was a friend, nor ever can be:
I know what spurious metal you are made of.
I come not here to dangle or amuse
The fool of hope with catching slippery promises.
I scorn the paultry sport.—Yet there's one favour.
The only one that I shall ever deign
To ask or to receive of you.

CLAUDIO.
What's that?

ALPHONSO.
There is a fountain in the grove behind
The gardens, if you'll meet me there alone
Within this half hour, 'twill oblige me.

CLAUDIO.
Ha! ha!
If one could guess why, this would seem a challenge.
You're pleasant, dear ALPHONSO. Ha! ha! ha!

ALPHONSO.
You will not laugh it off so.

CLAUDIO.
If you're serious,
Why should I from the mere contagion of
An angry look, or a few hasty words,
Give up my calm mind to a giddy storm?
Or be with impotent madness drawn into
The eddy of my erring friend's conceits?
If when my friend is drunk with causeless rage
I lose my sober temper, I become
The greater lunatic. Hear me, good ALPHONSO:
I can and dare; but yet I should be sorry
To use my sword without some solid cause.
'T must be a solid cause indeed that spurs me
To point it at the honest breast of one
I've lov'd so truly. And, for all your anger,
Believe me (for I know myself and you)
Which of us ever falls, the other leads
A life of horror and remorse no time
Can ever cure. Then ere we fight at least
Let us explain ourselves. 'Tis chiefly from
Fantastic jealousies, childish fits of spleen,
Mistakes on one side and false pride on th' other,
That honest men e'er quarrel.—Pray, ALPHONSO,
In what have I offended?

ALPHONSO.
Holy Heaven!
Who would not think this cheat a saint, an oracle?
But there's no devil to a smooth-tongued villain.—
In what have you offended?—Hark ye, tell me
Who was it that procured my banishment?
Who was it that embargoed sacred truth,
To give free traffic to pernicious lies?
And by the most persidious arts contriv'd
To step between me and my dearest right?—
I see by your look you're innocent of the matter.
Deny it if you dare, I'll force the lie
Down that false throat.

CLAUDIO.
In one not given to wine;
Such frolics must proceed from want of sleep.
Calm these wild spirits with one night's repose,
And then I'll talk with you.

ALPHONSO.
Buffoon, no shuffling!
One of us two shall sleep his last to-night.—
You'll meet me presently.

CLAUDIO.
Excuse me now,
I'm otherways engaged.

ALPHONSO.
You lie.

CLAUDIO.
Beware,
I must not hear this.

ALPHONSO.
You lie.

CLAUDIO.
Nay, then—

ALPHONSO.
A stab!
Well aimed to miss. Now have at your false heart.

SCENE IV.

ALPHONSO, CLAUDIO, STRENI, and Servants.
STRENI.
[their swords.—
What's this? what's this? Good Heaven!—beat down
Hold, hold, I charge you.—Part them—Are you mad?—
Pray how began this fray? ALPHONSO, CLAUDIO,
You're both my friends, and I am shocked so see
Such hot-brained work between you. How began this?—
Go you and wait without—Pray who began this?
Come, ALPHONSO, tell me,—was it you?

CLAUDIO.
My Lord,
I ne'er began a quarrel.—Let me breathe first—
And then I'll tell you.—

ALPHONSO.
Nay, 'twas I; I own it.—
Who else had reason to complain? 'Twas I,
Provoked by monstrous injuries, who gave
Opprobrious truths a vent. But 'twas not I,
Who like a cut-throat, an insidious coward,
Aimed at my unguarded enemy's heart. I'm sorry
It should have happened here. I did not mean
To scare the peace of this respected house
With angry deeds.

STRENI.
Young blood is hot. ALPHONSO.
When I was young like you my sword would ach
At every slight offence: where none was meant
I've been too madly brave. But when the fit
Was fairly fought out, it never failed to end
In warmest friendship. Trust me we have wept
With generous passion, at the sudden change
From bloody strife to cordial amity.
There is no joy to that which noble foes
At reconcilement feel. Come, come your hands;
Yours ALPHONSO, yours ALPHONSO. Come, embrace:
Be friends for ever.

CLAUDIO.
I have ever been,
And still shall be ALPHONSO's.

ALPHONSO.
As sincerely
Shall I be CLAUDIO's—But you'll meet me?

CLAUDIO.
Yes.

ALPHONSO.
Directly.

CLAUDIO.
Doubt not.

ALPHONSO.
Till then—farewell.—Good night.
My Lord, I must away. If you have ought
To do at Naples, I'm your post; for there
I must be ere I sleep.

STRENI.
Good night, ALPHONSO.
I'm sorry for this haste: next time we meet
I hope to taste your company at more leisure.

SCENE V.

STRENI, CLAUDIO.
STRENI.
How does my Count? You are not hurt I hope?

CLAUDIO.
Not hurt, my Lord, but truly much amazed.
I did not dream to meet ALPHONSO here;
Still less that we should quarrel.

STRENI.
'Tis no wonder.

CLAUDIO.
Not, that he should, before his wedding day
Could well be over, traverse land and sea
In search of quarrels?

STRENI.
There's your mistake, my friend.—
That marriage came to nothing.

CLAUDIO.
Is it possible?

STRENI,
'Tis true.

CLAUDIO.
Nay, then no wonder he should seek
To pierce my heart thro'. But how could this happen?

STRENI.
I've learnt it but just now. 'Tis so. Within
I'll tell you how.

SCENE VI.

CLAUDIO, an Officer.
OFFICER.
My Lord, my Lord, Lord CLAUDIO!

CLAUDIO.
Ha! who is this?—my watchful friend? what news?
There's horror in thy look.

OFFICER.
Fly, fly, my Lord.
This instant fly. They'll presently be here.
Your life is sold. Fly, fly.

CLAUDIO.
My life?

OFFICER.
Your kinsman
Has bought his own with yours.

CLAUDIO.
I thank him. Come;
Thy hand, I owe thee much; and if I live
Thou'rt made for ever.

OFFICER.
Ah! my good Lord. But fly.
Lose not a moment. Could I but contrive
To misdirect their search.—I'll try.

CLAUDIO.
Farewell.
Success attend you.

SCENE VII.

CLAUDIO.
What a fool was I
Not to have laid this prating knave asleep,
This tell-tale coward, when I safely might?
But that's too late.—What's next?—I'll meet my foe.—
This challenge happens well. For if he drops,
I fly for that; no other crime supposed
To startle me. 'Tis something, plausibly
To shun the fire-edge of a nation's vengeance.
And to gain time gives art and fortune room
To work such happy wonders, that despair
Should never seize the wise.—But should I fall
By this impetuous boy.—Yet better so
Than give the curious mob a holiday
To see my head jump off.—But then he comes
A conqueror to possess my bridal bed;
And meet with mutual ardour virgin charms
That fruitlesly were mine.—That's worse than death!
It must not be. Against a deadly foe
All arts are justified. Thou dy'st, ALPHONSO.
Prepare to meet a sterner bride. I come:
Please Heaven thou shalt not triumph in my doom.