 | Imperiale, a tragedie |  |
Scena sexta.
Doria, Imperiale, Molosso, Sango, Iustiniano, Spinola.Dor.
VVhose fortune should I envy? that am going
To take possession of a happinesse,
Great, and (what crownes felicity) secure?
Such constant joy proceeds from vertuous love:
But soft, what unexpected change is here?
Either mine eyes mistake, or my Imperial
Is quite depriv'd of his; alas, 'tis so:
I am amaz'd at this sad spectacle.
Jmp.
There can be none but yong Prince Doria left,
So apprehensive of my misery.
Dor.
What strange Eclipse? or dire Stymphalides
With their prodigious wings obscure the sun?
What cruell hand hath made us all thus wretched?
Imp.
What thou behold'st, is the least part of mine,
And thine owne woe.
Dor.
Where's my Angelica?
Imp.
She and her mother both are vilely murdered;
And that's not all, they both were ravish't first
By those two savage beasts.
Mol.
'Tis thy fate Doria
To be involv'd in that mans vow'd destruction.
Dor.
Where am I now, in fruitfull Italy,
Or in Hircania, where there's nothing seene
But horrid monsters, and perpetuall snow?
O wickednesse! that no age will beleeve!
And all Posterity deny! malitious fate,
That to my boundlesse misery add'st this;
To make me suffer barbarous wrongs from such
As are not capable of my revenge.
Or had he but conniv'd at the deed done
By his lustfull sonne or minion; I might hope,
Arm'd with the justice of my cause, to wrest
The ill-sway'd scepter from him, and reduce
Him and his race to unparrallel'd examples
Of wofull pride, and miserable greatnesse.
Then if abstracted spirits knowledge have
Of humane vowes, look down deflowred Mayd,
But yet no lesse a Virgin then a Vestall:
Since honour cannot stoop to punish slaves,
Whose vile condition sinks beneath that vengeance,
'Bove which no tyrants power could hope to clime.
And since thy cruell sufferings (blest soule)
Require strict satisfaction, loe, I turne
My fury on my selfe, and punish thus
Mine owne malignant fortune: who holds me?
offers to kill himselfe.
Forbeare, I may not be disarm'd.
Iust.
That man
That is transported by a desperate rage,
Disarmes himselfe, he that may hinder mischiefe,
And yet permits it, is an accessary.
Dor.
Noble Justinian, thou wert wont to be
Full of compassion, shew it now, and end
A loathed life.
Just.
That which had bin a crime
Not to prevent, were wickednesse to act.
Dor.
Restore me then my sword, it is not worse
To kill him that unwilling is to dye,
Than t'hinder him that's willing.
Iust.
If thou kil'st
Thy selfe, thereby thou dost confesse a guilt.
Dor.
The guilty seldome inflict punishment
Vpon themselves; what wretch can keep a life
So full of misery?
Iust.
'Tis wretchednesse,
Not to be able to beare misery,
It is not as thou think'st, renowned Doria,
These weighty strokes of Fortune valiantly,
And this becomes thy noble birth and spirit,
On which th'afflictions of the world should fall,
But as tempestuous showres into the sea.
Dor.
Thy counsell comes too late, sentence is given
By me upon my selfe, nor canst thou save
Or yet reprieve me, he that resolves to dye,
Findes weapons every where, my minde could arme
These hands without a sword, but it disdaines
All borrowed ayde; my weapons are within:
If sudden joy can speedy death command,
Why should not griefe? and mine above all others?
Then summon all thy forces mighty sorrow,
Contract this stubborne heart and stifle it,
Deny it the bold priviledge, to be
The last that feeles the stroke of death: so, so,
It shoots a vapour that will poyson it,
And choke each passage of the vitall spirits,
And now I feele it beat against my breast,
As if it gave th'allarum unto all
The organs of my life; O how it strugles,
Disdaining to submit! proud rebell downe,
Thy lygaments are shrunke, and I approach
The place, where Lovers after death reside,
Where I a ghost will yet enjoy my Bride:
Wilt thou not yeeld? dost thou expect reliefe?
Time, that releaseth sorrow, shall not joyne
With refresht nature to repaire thy ruine:
I to a broken heart will adde this doome,
No substance within these lips shall come.
Mol.
Thy daughter Imperiale is canoniz'd:
With contrite heart devout Prince Doria,
Hath vow'd a fast to his Saint Angelica.
Imp.
I feele so great a weight of misery,
That I can scarce be sensible of more,
Although it be (what's harder to be borne
Than my calamity) a villains scorne.
Spi.
Thus shall my silence breake, into remorse,
Not into rage, that feaver of the soule
Let me cry out to fate, as Hanniball
At Canne, to his bloody Souldiers, spare;
Imperial know'st thou the voyce of Spinola?
By the most faithfull head of my Justinian
(Than which there cannot be a holier found)
I truly am mov'd with pity, thy sad story
Would melt a flinty heart into compassion;
Procrustes, or the wilde Inhabitants
Of horrid Caucasus are milde to these.
Imp.
I know not, gentle Spinola how thou
Canst accept thanks from me, that have from thee
Deserv'd so ill, It may not be suppos'd
I can dissemble now, that Villaine there
Contriv'd thy deare sons death without my knowledge,
Though I am guiltie of as great a crime,
For I was willing, to my too late greife
Vpon discovery made by thine owne Slave
Of thy intent, to have the same retorted
Vpon thy selfe, the rest that wretch did plot,
In whom I plac'd a wicked confidence;
And did at length too much applaud the fact,
From whence our mutuall miseries result.
Spi.
Thy crime was but diversion of an evill,
Whereof I hate the memory, and wish
I could drinke deep of Lethe, to forget
That impious designe, and for these villains,
I'le study a new punishment, that shall
Transcend Perillus Bull, and all the torments
Invented by the fierce Sicilian tyrants.
Mol.
'Tis wretchednesse to feare where ther's no hope,
Could'st thou beleeve, vaine Spinola, that we
Would undertake to act so bold a mischiefe,
And not resolve upon as brave an end?
We that have gained such a full revenge,
Meane not to lose it by a poore submission
To hopelesse mercy, or your new found torments;
Though fortune made us wretched slaves to you,
We both retaine some sparks of th'active fire,
Which the traditions of our Countrey tell us,
Not yet so quench thy servitude, but we
Have will and power to free our selves, behold
Our liberty; these shall restore us now
To that equality that nature gave,
In which blinde chance hath put a difference:
One blow from these deliverers can make
An abject begger equall to a King:
Sango keepe time.
San.
I'm ready.
The slaves pistoll each other.
Mol.
By consent
We thus avoyd & mock your punishment.
Spi.
The Harpies are flown suddenly to hell,
And hang already on that hideous rocke;
Where dreadfull fiends lye gaping to receive 'm;
But let me, sir, become your faithfull guide
To leade you to my house, where you shall live,
And want no comfort love or cost can give.
Imp.
The onely comfort of a wretched soule
Is to despaire of comfort. I see not
The mansion guilty of such wickednesse,
But I am seene, a wretch, in Genua,
Where all my ancestors stand wreath'd with honour:
I'le wander to a desart, or else clime
Some remote mountaine, where dark clouds that hang
About his high erected head, shall hide me
From all the eyes of men, there I'le lament
My miseries in willing banishment.
Iust.
What need we care how powerfull our foes be?
When slaves can bring us to such misery?
Whose innate cruelties at length appeare,
Though they the same may cunningly forbeare,
For their owne ends; it is not wisedome then
To place our trust in such condition'd men,
Whom punishments, and wants, and feares prepare
To hatred, to deceit, and to despaire:
Yet these are but poore instruments, the cause
That on our heads heavens indignation drawes,
Springs from our selves, against which ther's no defence
Like th'armour of a spotlesse innocence
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