University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

An Ante-Room in the Castle. Enter Pulti.
Pulti.
(Sings.)
With each grain of Heaven's goodness,
I will mix one of woodness,
And ten solid grains of pure evil;
Do whatever you can,
You must bolt all, my man,
Or starve, quoth to Adam the devil.

(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
Your fiendish ditty is a guide, at least.
Well met! Your news?

Pul.
I barely saved my time.
The guests are down, and I am sent to seek you.

Sal.
Is the cup drugged?

Pul.
I mixed the powders in,
And poured the wine around, ere I came off.

Sal.
Two powders?

Pul.
Two.

Sal.
Victoria! The one
Shall rack him shrewdly, with a piercing colic,
Until the opiate act; when he will fall,
Upon a sudden, in a torpid stupor,
Which will so balance between life and death,
That but a feather's weight might turn the beam,
And land him in eternity.

Pul.
It might?
I am no feather, and, by all I love,
I'll leap into the balance bodily.

Sal.
No, Pulti; I 've not closed with Marsio.
To-morrow I must buy the Marquis' debts,
On my own terms; death would upset my bargain.

Pul.
Here 's Marsio's poison.

[Gives the vial.]
Sal.
Precious, precious vial!
You hold the happiness of two dear hearts
Pent in your narrow compass!

Pul.
Is that all?
Methinks it comes to little, when 't is brought
Down to a liquid form. Had I believed
A lover's prophecies upon this point,
I 'd have been fool enough to build an ark,
Against a second deluge. What a close
To all your rhapsodies! Here 's a scant bath
For a foul fly!

Sal.
Enough to drown your wit.

Pul.
If that 's the substance of love's happiness,
Pray trust it to my handling. I will bear it,
As friars do rare relics, through the land,
To strengthen bachelors in their religion.

Sal.
Prodigious atheist!

Pul.
Holy maniac!
Now, which is better, a sound infidel,
Or a cracked devotee? Let Heaven decide.

Sal.
Back to your master, knave! his fellowship
Sorts with your feelings.

Pul.
'T is a doleful thing,
That our gay world can yield a healthy man
No company but lunatics or rogues:
The wise are villains, and the honest fools.
Lord! what a raking mid the weeds there is,
To find one modest flower in all the crop!

Sal.
I prophecy a cardinal's cap for you,
If you will preach thus in the market-place.
I must be off. O, Pulti, Pulti, Pulti,
If ever man loved man, I dote on you!

[Exeunt.]