 | Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Scene is a Chamber of State, as distance are discovered little American Boys with Boxes of Jewels in their hands; on each side of the Stage, from the flat Scene to the Chamber, long Indian Screnes are spread at their full length.Enter Alonzo, and Don Michael.
D. Mich.
Are these the Presents, say'st thou, of the late
New Cardinal Ascanio Sforza?
Alonz.
They are; he offers thus to Machiavel,
And thinks that Gold may bribe him to betray
The Duke Valentinois. But, Michael, tell me
What does the World report of this Creation,
Does it not rail, and grin, and bite the Pope?
D. Mich.
Has it not Reason? For, betwixt our selves,
Would any man in his high Dignity
So vilely sell the Glories of the Church?
Twelve Cardinals at once created!
Ascanio first, because he bids him most:
A fine effeminate Villain, bred in Brothels,
Senseless, illiterate, the Jear of Rome,
A blot to the whole See! One fitter far
For Hospitals, that paints and patches up
A wretched Carkass worried in the Stews.
But, see! the gaudy Pageant moves this way:
How spruce he looks! and with a Pocked Glass
Surveys the gloating Image.
Alonz.
All Luxury:
I heard, the night succeeding his Creation,
That he got drunk, and kiss'd the Prelates round
For joy—But, see he comes; retire and leave me.
[Ex. D. Mich.
Enter Ascanio Sforza.
Ascan.
Well, Borgia, well! if I am not reveng'd!
Was there none else in Rome, but Bellamira?
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I saw her first at Mass, as I remember;
Cherubin and Seraphin were nothing to her:
Oh such a skin full of alluring flesh!
Ah, such a ruddy, moist, and pouting Lip;
Such Dimples, and such Eyes! such melting Eyes,
Blacker than Sloes, and yet they sparkl'd fire,
Then such a way she had to roul 'em round;
As thus, and thus—a thousand amorous ways;
And wink and gloat, and turn 'em to the corners—
Alonz.
My Noble Lord!
Ascan.
My dear, my dear Alonz!
Nay, let me greet thee: 'twas the Father's Custom.
But tell me, lovely, dear Alonzo, tell me:
Thou hast the softest fine Complexion for
A Lover; best take heed of walking late:
Tell me I say, or I will pinch thy Cheek?
Moves he this way, or does he teem alone
With some state Birth? if so, I'll wait agen.
Alonz.
Whom does your Eminence intend?
Ascan.
Thy Lord:
Whom should I mean, intend, or think of else?
Thy Lord and mine. Well he's an Oracle! intend!
Why man, I dream of nothing else!
Alonz.
But Wenches.
Ascan.
O Machiavel! there, there's a word, a sound,
An Air, a blast, a Thunder-clap of wit,
To rouse our Foggy thick-scull'd Cardinals:
I'll say no more; Would he were Pope,
Head of the Christian World, and I his Engine,
His particular member, to bring, to cast,
To throw, disperse, convey the warmest
Sprinklings of his benediction.
Alonz.
My Lord, I humbly offer'd your Address,
While with an eye, swift as the Sun and piercing,
He ran your Letter o're: and sure it stirr'd him;
For strait he turn'd, and darting me, he ask'd
If the great Cardinal, meaning you, my Lord,
Which shews the deep respect he bears your Person,
Knew not that Borgia was his best of Friends.
Borgia, he cry'd again, to whom the Lords
Of Florence sent me their Ambassadour
With promis'd aid against the Rebel Orsins.
Ascan.
Has he receiv'd—stay, I say, has he? here,
Open thy Fist, now gripe me fast, and tell me.
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I durst not name your Presents;
But, bowing, soon retir'd, and plac'd em here,
That as he follows, he may view at once
All your Magnificence—if ought of Earth
His temper holds, this lightning will dissolve it:
But see! He comes; be pleas'd, Sir, to retire,
And you shall hear the Zeal with which I serve you.
Enter Machiavel.
Mach.
Thus have I drawn the platform of their Fates;
As oft I have beheld, by Masters hands,
A Tale in painting admirably told;
Here a soft Dido stabb'd into the breast,
A Hero there thrown headlong from a Window,
To meet her Lover wrack'd upon the Shore:
So have I form'd in more than Brass or Marble,
The Deaths of those whom I intend to hush.
O, Cæsar Borgia! such a Name and Nature!
That is my second self; a Machiavel!
A Prince! who, by the vigor of this brain,
Shall rise to the old height of Roman Tyrants.
Alonz.
He deeply thinks; nor dare I interrupt him,
Till he comes forward.
Ascan.
Peace, and give him way—Oh such a Head-piece!
Mach.
In all my strict enquiries, all the Humours
Which I have drain'd with more than Chymists pains,
I have not found a temper so compleat
To finish forth a greatness as my Cæsar's.
First; he's a Bastard, got in a fit of Nature!
She shook him from her Nerves in a Convulsion;
His Father stampt the Bullion in a heat,
And taking from the Mint the fiery ore,
His Image blest, and cry'd, it is my own.
Yet more, a Priest begot him, and 'tis thought
That Earth is more oblig'd to Priests for Bodies,
Than Heav'n for Souls! nay, and a young Priest too,
Perhaps in the Embraces of a Nun,
Who ventur'd life to clasp the lusty joy.
Ascan.
Oh, if a man could but hear him now! Brain, all brain;
Alas, Alonzo, we are stuff to him—
Meer Entrails, but the Guts of Government,
Nothing to him—hark—he goes on—
Mach.
Why, what a start of Nature is this man
Whom by Ambition, not by Love I'll raise?
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I gravely take, for ruine to the Bride,
To her old doting Father, Brothers, Uncles,
And the whole Race of Orsin and Vitelli
Is fixt by Fate and me: No more! the fleeting Air
May catch the sounds, and walls themselves have ears.
Alonz.
My Lord! the Cardinal Ascanio
[coming forward and bowing.
Is planted to your order.
Mach.
Let him hear us—
Urge me no more,—for 'tis impossible!
Alonz.
My Lord, he thinks not so:
He says your Voice is as the mouth of Heav'n,
Stiles you a God, and in the extravagance
Of his unbounded admiration, swears
Nothing to you can be impossible.
Mach.
Extravagance indeed!
Yet such extravagance expresses love,
And merits all my thanks: and had he mention'd
Ought but the ruine of my best Friends,
I would with all the Wings of expedition
Have shot through 1000 bars to do him service.
Alonz.
My Lord! he does not hint at Borgia's ruine.
Mach.
Does he not wish that I should break the Nuptials?
'Tis sure the Marriage I at first dislik'd;
I pierc'd the Charmer with a narrow eye,
And found how Wit and Beauty threatn'd in her,
With all the subtlest graces, that might lull
Stubborn ambition to inglorious rest:
But love already had perform'd his part,
And laid the Warring Borgia at her Feet,
How then should I oppose his first Enjoyment,
Who was his Legate, and sollicited
The Parents of the beauteous Bellamira.
Alonz.
At least, Sir, for the future, lay some block
That may disturb the progress of their loves;
And since you have alledg'd 'tis for his glory
This Marriage were undone; since it is done,
Let it be hurtful in the consequence.
Mach.
Thus I should prove indeed a Friend to Florence,
Who hate Orsino's Race: Nay, I should act
The truest Part of Friendship to my Borgia,
Snatching this Soft'ner from his War-like Bosom,
And turning him new bent, for Arms and Glory.—
Ha! What new Scene of Gallantry is this?
Whence, and from whom comes this Magnificence?
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Alonz.
They are the Children of the new-found World,
The Forms of Zomes, call'd the Indian Gods.
Mach.
Away with 'em, and bid 'em tell their Lord,
Machiavel's Virtue never shall be brib'd;
And for their service give 'em twenty Crowns:
But if thou darest to rob 'em of a Spangle,
You know my humour,—never see me more.
Alonz.
Doubt not, my Lord, but I'll observe your humour.—
Come in, my Lord—I told you he would melt.
Sir, the great Cardinal. So,—now they cringe;
What, and embrace too! Oh thou damn'd, damn'd World!
These will be heard, and make your Statesman smile,
When Orphans, Widows, and the crippled Souldiers
Are Elbow'd off, and thrust away in frowns.
[Exit, with the Boys.
Mach.
My Lord, you make me wonder! Sure you've been
In love your self with old Orsino's Daughter!
Ascan.
Lov'd her, my Lord! witness these falling tears!
Why do you thaw my Nature with your Questions?
Witness bright Stars! witness you golden Planets!
And all ye Woods, and all ye purling Streams;
And Birds and Flocks, and Grots, and Rocks, and Flow'rs!
Nay, Sir, I tell you, she was mine betroth'd,
If I could cast my Coat, which had been done,
For nothing tickles the present Pope like Gold,
Daz'es him that he weeps Indulgences,
Forgives, absolves, all for Omnipotent Gold;
Dispenses Pardons sometimes in a fury,
He sends his Bulls abroad that roar like Thunder:
When strait a golden Calm
Comes o're their backs, and then they're still as Lambs;
Why should I hold you long amongst the rest,
That saw her Borgia, that unlucky Bastard,
Beheld and lov'd her.—I, my Lord, was ruin'd.
Mach.
My Lord, I wish the Marriage may not prosper:
He's bent to enjoy her, and in that I sooth him:
For subtly offering once to bring him off,
I found pale anger in his Face like Death,
Whereon I feign'd compliance, and have wrought
The business to a head—But let time work,
And rest assur'd, that what so mean a man
As Machiavel with honour can perform,
To pay you perfect Service shall be done.
Ascan.
My Lord! farewel—when I protest and swear,
Ev'n by the Altar of fair Bellamira,
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Not a step further by my Robe! your Captive,
Your Eminence most humble Creature, Servant, Slave.
[Ex. Ascanio.
Mach.
I am ty'd for ever.
[Walking.
No dull Buffoon! thou walking lump of Lust;
Not to revenge thy ungor'd appetite
Shall Borgia kill her: But for his own Renown:
He is my Champion-prince, Italian Tyrant,
Not form'd to languish in a Womans Arms.
Oh—'tis a fault, were I so fram'd for greatness,
E're I would amble in a Female Court,
And cringe, and skip, and play the Ladies Cripple,
I would be Gibbetted i'th'Common-way,
For Crows and Daws to peck my Carrion Limbs.
But I must rouze him, and I'll do't by Death,
Ev'n by the bloody Death of her he doats on.
Enter Adorna.
Here's one Ingredient I must mix to make
The potion Death—The Wretch is deep in Love
With Borgia's Brother, the young Duke of Gandia,
That way I make her sure!
Ador.
My Lord.
Mach.
My dear Adorna,
How goes the marriage forward? and how treats
The gallant Borgia, great Valentinois,
Romania's Duke his fair and Virgin Bride?
Ador.
The Rites are to be solemniz'd this morning;
Tho' Bellamira quite abhors the Marriage,
Who still when Borgia humbly sues for Love;
Answers him with her Tears, and pays his Vows
With Ominous weeping.
Mach.
And how takes he that?
Ador.
He walks and muses deeply, speaks to no man,
But Paul Orsino, whose most watchful wit
I fear descries where she has lockt her heart;
With a bent brow he eyes the Duke of Gandia,
Salutes him not of late: He came this morning
Into her Chamber; dreadful was his action,
Unworthy of my blood, he thundred out;
But if the generous Borgia is refus'd;
Think not of Gandia, but of blood and death.
Mach.
What inauspicious Chance discovered to him
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But thee and me, and those unhappy Lovers?
Ador.
I cannot guess; he paus'd a while, then sigh'd,
And starting up in fury charg'd her rise:
Receive, hecry'd, receive him as a Husband
Whom the selected vertues of thy Sex
Can ne're deserve, adorn thee like a Bride,
And meet him, tho thy Treacherous heart is Mortgag'd;
Meet him at least with well dissembled Love,
Or by my hopes, I'll wreke my anger on thee,
With all the Torments that Italian Fury
Could e're invent for an Adulterous Wretch:
He cry'd I will, and after make thee nothing.
Mach.
Haste thee away! charm with thy utmost skill
The mourning Bellamira, to obey him:
The knot once ty'd, Gandia will soon despair:
Leave me to work him then: Millions to one
But I shall make him thine.
Ador.
But did Duke of Gandia once protest?
Mach.
Protest! He did protest, and swear, and vow.
Go go, and haste! for the day grows upon us.
Ex. Adorna.
His Brother too! this Duke of Gandia bleeds;
For he is grown of late the Romans darling,
Warm'd in the very Bosom of the Pope,
And dearer than my Borgia to his Sister,
The famous Lucrece, who can charm her Father
In all the heat of Excommunications,
When he throws Bulls, like Thunderbolts about him;
She like a Venus to his angry Jove:
Moves with incestuous Fires, folds her white arm
About his chafing Neck, strokes his black Beard,
And smooths his furrow'd Cheeks to dimpled smiles;
The Brothers too enjoy'd her. O Heav'n, and Earth!
Not the first day, after such infinite time
That Motion had th'irregular matter rowl'd,
When all the wandring Atoms hit at last
Into this beauteous form, even when our Sires
First mingled, was there such a loose of Nature,
Such a triumvirate of Lawless Lovers,
Such Rivals as out-do even Lucian's Gods!
Ha! the Orsini here! and the Vitelli!
They move this way in murmuring Cabals;
Methinks Death darkens every Visage there.
'Tis so—They are no more—Or this is true,
Or Machiavel knows nothing of Man-kind.
Ex. Mach.
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Vitel.
I say agen, I do not like the Marriage;
Were Bellamira mine, I'd sell her off
For Gold, I'd merchandize her tender beauty
With Infidels, and send her to the Turk,
Like an Andromada, to gorge the Monster,
Rather than to wed her to perfidious Borgia.
Orsin.
You are too violent.
Vital.
I think not so:
A drowning man will grasp at any thing,
Nay, sink his Friend that leap'd among the Waves
To give him life: but yon tho in the gulph,
Ride on to ruine, tho your Friends call out.
Ang.
Nay, though they point the Whirle-pool just before you,
That would devour us all.
Adrian.
Besides 'tis Impious,
Against all Right of Nature, Law of Reason,
To act the Tyrant o're a Daughters will.
Ascan.
She knows the Cruelties of Cæsar Borgia,
Has heard his Rapes and Murders! Mercy on me!
How did he use the poor Venetian Lady?
He forc'd her in a Wood, nay in a Ditch,
As I am credibly inform'd by those
That heard her squeak, in a Dry-Ditch deflowr'd her!
Add yet to this, my Lords, How, when the French,
At sacking of a Town, broke open Nunnerie,
He truss'd at least 40 the pretty'st Rogues,
The tenderst quaking things! never broke up!
All spotless Maids, like Buds ne're blown upon,
Nor touch d even with the tip of any Finger,
And kept 'em for his Letchery.
Orsin.
Methinks my Lord Ascanio! my Lord of Millain,
Or my Lord Cardinal, more moderation
Would better fit a man of your profession?
I would not come to the old Argument,
For then we clash: Borgia is now my Son;
Therefore I pray once more forbear to tax him;
The Theme is great and worthy that we mention,
Romania's Duke and Nephew to the Pope.
Ascan.
Prithee, old Paul: Prithee now ben't so hot:
Good Reverend Gray-beard: if you'l name his Greatness,
Pronounce him right, ev'n as his Holiness
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His natural Son, his Nephew, or his By blow, that is,
In short, old Paul, his down right Bastard.
Orsin.
Without a blush: should I stand up the Champion
Of absent Borgia, and unravel thee,
I tell thee, Priest; thou scandal to the Altar,
Thy Front, thy Eyes, thy Lips, each part of thee
Would blush with Scarlet deeper than thy Robe.
Ascan.
Peace Dotard, peace:
I say old stuttering Paul, thou'lt ha' the worst on't:
Therefore peace, peace Dotard.
Orsin.
Ha!
Vitel.
Forbear: my Lord, Remember!
Orsin.
How dares he thus provoke me?
Who knows, yet urges me knows in his heart
How I have pierc'd into his deepest thoughts,
Have had intelligence of all his Vices,
Ev'n of his closest, darkest Deeds of Lust,
And dar'st thou call me Dotard? Saucy Churchman!
Thou that gav'st Whores Indulgences for Sin;
So rank, that he frequents the Common Stews;
For a new Face would give his Scarlet Coat
To make the Strumpet fine.
Oliv.
My Lord, Consider where, to whom, of whom,
And what it is you utter?
Orsin.
Place me, some Power,
Upon Saint Peter's Vane, the very Ball,
And turn my Voice to Thunder, that I may
Lay open to the World the Hellish Acts
Of this Contagious Prelate.
Ascan.
Spit, spit thy Venom; nay, nay, let him out with't—
Mark how he shakes now; by my Holy-Dame
I have nettled him: Poor Paul—I Pitty the old Fool—
Orsin.
Then Priest, let me demand thee,
Is not the Cupping-glass that burns thy Lust,
And draws thy rising Gall to such a Blister,
My Daughter's scorn, and loathing of thy person?
Ha! is't not that? I think I've stung you, Cardinal!
Worse than the Neapolitan Pox you gave
Our Roman Harlots—
Ascan.
Why how now, Paul, what dost thou grow foul
Mouth'd now? by my Holy-Dame, had I a Sword
I'd firk thee, Orsin—I'd so whip thee, Paul,
So flawg and scourge thee, thou should'st eat thy words.
The Pox! why, how now? ha! the Pox i'faith!
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Orsin.
Ha! wilt thou fight?
So forward Priest! by Heav'n I'll shave your Crown;
Stand back and let me mow this Poppy off;
This rank red Weed that spoils the Churches Corn.
Vitel.
Did ever fury run to such a height!
Why, my Lord Cardinal, know you this place,
And how 'tis priviledg'd?
Ascan.
My Lord, I am silenc'd.
An easie Man made up of patience, I!
No Gall in me! give me thy hand, Old Paul:
Henceforth w'are Friends, and as a Friend I'll tell thee,
Ev'n from my Heart, I'll tell thee what I think:
Thou art bewitch't, Old Paul, besotted, fool'd—
This Son-in-Law of thine has seal'd thine Eyes,
And shortly I shall see thee walk the Streets
With a Dog and a Bell—nay—prithee be not angry,
For 'tis in love: I'll tell thee of a Dotage,
And so your Servant noble Vitellazzo,
Anga and Enna yours—Farewell, my Lord,
And lastly thine whose Neck is in the Noose,
Old Woodcock, Orsin.
[Exit Cardinal.
D. Gravin.
I am not us'd to fear,
But yet methought Ascanio's last words
Were dreadful to my Ears.
Orsin.
I have engag'd
My Daughter, Life and Honour, and all my Fortunes
For the Duke's Faith, and the security.
Of every person here; why should we doubt him?
Have we not seen his Labour in this matter?
Four thousand Duckets, given us down in hand,
With an assurance of our former pay;
Nay more, he binds himself not to constrain
Any one of us to appear in person
Before him, but who pleases of himself:
Therefore let me intreat you clear your Brains,
Meet all this day together at the Marriage,
And pay him, as he merits faithful homage.
Vitel.
There's something here fore-bodes, in spite of
The Musick that he makes, a harsh Conclusion.
Orsin.
For shame no more! the very fears of Children,
Because he gives our Friends allowances,
And honours them with Charges, Governments,
Beyond their Qualities, we dread his Dealing,
And swear he means todraw our Faction from us.
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Henceforth say what you will, do what you please,
Since to your Interests I am link'd by Fate:
I will no more oppose your specious Reasons,
But instantly go wait upon the Duke.
Trumpets.
Orsin.
This day to add new Honours to the Marriage,
Our Son-in-Law, the Duke Valantinois,
Receives the Rose before the Consistory,
A Grace which seldom is vouchsafed to Kings;
Indeed the greatest which the Sacred Head
Of the whole Christian World can give to Man,
The very highest Round of Humane Glory.
Scene draws, and shews the Consistory: Borgia come forward, with the Rose carri'd before him in great Pomp. His Son Seraphino led by Alonzo, Machiavel, Attendants, Ascanio, and five Cardinals, &c.
Brog.
O Machiavel! was over Pomp like this?
The Morning dawns with an unwonted Crimson;
The Flow'rs more od'rous seem, the Garden Birds
Sing louder, and the laughing Sun ascends
The gaudy Earth with an unusual brightness—
All Nature smiles, and the whole world is pleas'd,
Even all the World, but thy unhappy Borgia.
Mach.
And why should he, who every Man concludes
The Darling of the Times, whom bounteous Heav'n
Has Crown'd with Glory in successful Wars,
Whom it now doubly Crowns with Beauty too,
The brightest of her Sex, why should he thwart
The whole Worlds Vogue, and think himself unhappy?
Borg.
Yes Machiavel! thou worthi'st of Mankind,
To thee I'll strip my Heart, that secret Bed,
With Vices, Vertues, every naked thought,
And shew thee all the mixture of a Man.
We are observ'd—Think me not over-frail
Because I love: were Bellamira dearer,
Her Father bleeds, and all the Rebel-Race;
I'll first insnare the Fools: then preach Fate to 'em.
Mach.
And let 'em know, just as the Cords are drawing,
None ought to offend his Prince, and after trust him.
Borg.
My Lord Orsino! O forgive me, Heav'n!
Who have thus grosly fail'd to pay the Reverence
I owe the best of Fathers, best of Friends:
This day, this glorious day, for ever blest,
And never to be lost in Times dark Legend,
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Which are not us'd to kneel but at the Altar:
And O! permit me thus to kiss your Hand,
And pay the Eternal Vows of my Obedience.
Orsin.
O rise, my Lord, all Duty is out done
With but one single bare Acknowledgment;
Yet for a satisfaction to this Company,
Say, do you love my Daughter Bellamira?
Borg.
Ha! what says my Father? do I live?
O Heaven? Why do you wound me with the Question?
Does the poor suff'ring Fair One Vertue love,
Who drinks the Brook, and eats what Nature yields,
Rather than feast in Courts with loss of Honour?
Do those, who on the Rack for Heav'n expire,
Love Angels, and Eternal brightness there?
'Tis sure they do: And oh—'tis full as sure,
That Cæsar Borgia dies for Bellamira.
Orsin.
No more; you Honour her and me too much:
Therefore this day I give her to your Arms
With all the pleasure of a proud old Father,
O'rejoy'd to see his Daughter match'd above him:
By Heav'n, my eyes grow full; here all our Discord
For ever end, all Jars betwixt the Orsins,
Vitelli, and the Duke of Valentinois,
Be bury'd ever in this strict Imbrace.
Borg.
Since you will have it so, forgive my Duty;
Let me grow bold, and as a Friend imbrace you—
Orsin.
See here, my Lord, for scarce can I distinguish,
Through the bright joy that dazles my weak sight,
Oliverotto, and the Duke Graviana,
When Vitellozzo come to grace your Nuptials:
All on their knees acknowledge you their Prince.
Borg.
My Equals all: Nor shall this Homage be,
I swear it shall not: Rise my Lords; your Arms:
Let me imbrace you round: by all things sacred,
I swear that none of you have been too blame.
Were you Confederates against my Arms:
You were: but Borgia's infinite Ambition
Forc'd you against your wills to let him know,
His head-strong Youth, like a young fiery Horse,
Unless you kindly stop him in his speed,
Would hurl him from some Precipice to ruine.
Orsin.
See Vitellozzo! how he takes our Crimes
Upon himself.
Borg.
Behold this Child, my Son!
13
Which in the darkness of my heart can match him,
But Bellamira. Take him Vitellozzo,
Take the dear blood that trickles from my heart,
The very strings that wind about my life,
And let him for my part be Surety,
As beautious Bellamira is for yours.
Orsin.
Farewell, my Lord: with these Attendance here
I go to haste the Bride; and let my life
Be answer for the little Seraphino.
Ex. Orsin. Vitelli.
Ascan.
He has her now, that delicate bit of Beauty
Which I reserv'd for my own Letchery:
He drills her from her old deluded Sire,
Hell! and she melts; she melts into his mouth:
But by my Holy-Dame I'll be reveng'd
On every part of him: His little Bastard,
Because he doats on him, shall streight be mangled—
I'll do't I say: Yes by my Holy-Dame,
I will revenge my loss of Letchery—
Ha! what a jerk was that? it grates my bones;
Pray Heav'n it ben't a Spice, a little Tang
Of the Neapolitan Itch, O my Holy-Dame.
Ex. with Cardinals.
Borg.
Now Machiavel, prepare to hear my Soul,
Hear to what softness and effeminate mourning
All my dear Victories at last are melted:
For I will tell thee though thou'lt scarce believe,
Since first I saw the Charming Bellamira,
The very Image of Charlotta's scorn,
I have not had one hour of Free repose;
Ev'n when at last I have resolv'd to joyn
Our hands and trust her with my tender glory,
I've started from my Bed, at midnight rose,
And wander'd by the Moon: Then laid me down
Upon some dewy bank, and slept till morn.
Mach.
Therefore there must be some strange Circumstance
That first induc'd those fears, some dang'rous hint
For your suspitions—
Borg.
Yes Machiavel,
There is, there is a cause for my suspitions.
Mach.
Are you sure of it?
Borg.
Most sure I am;
Sure as reserv'dness does imply aversion:
Yet I, as if my flames were fire in Frost,
The more she cools, scorch, rage, and burns the more—
Mach.
I guess your meaning; like Charlotta, she
14
Borg.
Ha! did I know the name of him I dread?
What God in Arms should save him from my Sword?
Here thou hast rouz'd the Lion in my heart,
Italian spite, revenge and blasting fury
Devours my Soul! all mildness sleeps like Death:
I boil like Drunkards Veins—Death! Hell and Vengeance!
Mach.
Suppress this Fury—
Come! come! my Lord—I find your are better skill'd
In Camps then Courts, and know not yet Loves World.
She is reserv'd you say, when you approach her;
Why, let her weep too: was it ever known
A subtle Bride laugh'd on her Wedding Day,
Or clasp'd her love in the eye o'th world?
I find you are unlearn'd! Sir—'tis their Trade,
The very Nature, Soul, and Life-blood of 'em—
To whine, and cry, and turn their heads away,
When their hearts dote on what they seem to scorn!
Borg.
If it were so!
Mach.
Why it was always so,
Is so, and will be so to the worlds end!
Give me your hand, and take her on my word;
I have been bred in Courts; sounded the humours
Even of all Women-kind: Therefore advise you
Repair immediately to old Orsino,
Who with his Beauteous Daughter waits your Coming.
Borg.
Could she be truly mine! the wings of Winds
Would be too slow to waft me to her arms!
Mach.
Once more I say, she is and shall be yours,
Truly, religiously, devoutly yours—
Why all this thought and groundless Jealousy?
Let manly Confidence and Roman-Vertue
Master this Gothick Fury in your blood.
Borg.
By Arms! by all the glories I have won!
Thou hast awak'd my Love, and Charm'd my fears.
Charlotta! O the very figure of her;
But sure the Beauteous Lines are softer here:
And now I find 'tis ruine to forgo her—
Mach.
No more my Lord. 'Tis I that thus embark you,
And if some starting Plank should flaw the Vessel
To your destruction—I am ruin'd too—
Since all I have, or am, or ever would be,
Is to be yours; your sworn, unbyass'd friend.
Borg.
Thou best of men:
Thou art my Oracle, my Heaven, my Genius,
And, as some God, shalt guide me through the World.
15
Marriage and Death both new Experiments.
Methinks I see the Taper in the Window,
The Busie Nurse unveils the weeping Maid,
And I must naked pass through Seas to reach her.
O fatal Marriage! O thou dismal Gulph!
Which like the Hellespona do'st rore between
Me and my Joys: Is there no other way?
None, none, the Winds and the dash'd Rocks reply:
Why let 'm roar; and let the Billows swell;
Till the rack't Orbs be with the Deluge drown'd.
'Tis fixt; I'll plunge, or perish, or enjoy her—
Mach.
Justly resolv'd; nor let a few false Tears
Melt you again to an untimely mildness.
Charlotta thus deluded you in France,
Which render'd all your Court ridiculous:
Remember that, and lest the like disgrace
Should happen now, drag her if she refuses!
Borg.
I will, my Machiavel,—O Arms! O Glory!
What an Eternal Rust would smear your Luster,
Did not this Spirit of Ambition fire me!
I'll tell her that the lives of all her race,
Are now within my power.
Mach.
Nay, threaten her!
Borg.
I will do more than threaten;
Think not the dreadful Cæsar will be rows'd
To threaten only; that's a sleeping Borgia,
A loving, dreaming, Conscientious Borgia;
But when I wake there's always Execution—
Mach.
It has been so.
Borgia.
And shall I swear again;
No, Machiavel; she must be mine or dye;
Should she for refuge to the Temple flie!
I'd after her; there, if she scorns my flame,
To the dumb Saints I will my Vows proclaim;
And in their view resolve the glorious game:
Upon the Golden Shrines I'll lay her head,
And ev'n the Altar make my Bridal Bed—
[Ex. Ambo.
| Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth | |