 | Antonio's Reuenge |  |
SCENA QVINTA.
Pie.
Call Iulio hither; where's the little sowle?
I sawe him not to day. Here's sport alone
For him, ifaith; for babes and fooles, I know,
Relish not substance, but applaud the showe.
To the conspirators as they stand in ranke for the measure.
To Antonio.
Gal.
All blessed fortune crown your braue attempt.
To Pandulpho.
I haue a troope to second your attempt.
To Alberto.
The Venice States ioyne hearts vnto your hands.
Pie.
By the delights in contemplation
Of comming ioyes, 'tis magnificent.
Your grace my mariage eue with sumptuous pompe.
Sound still, lowde musick. O, your breath giues grace
To curious feete, that in proud measure pase.
Ant.
Mother, is Iulios bodie
Ma.
Speake not, doubt not; all is aboue all hope.
Ant.
Then will I daunce and whirle about the ayre.
Me thinks I am all sowle, all heart, all spirit.
Now murder shall receiue his ample merite.
The measure.
While the measure is dauncing, Andrugios ghost is placed betwixt the musick houses.
Bring hither suckets, canded delicates.
Weele taste some sweet meats, gallants, ere we sleep.
Ant.
Weele cooke your sweete meats, gallants,
with tart sower sawce.
And.
Here will I sit, spectator of reuenge,
And glad my ghost in anguish of my foe.
The maskers whisper with Piero.
Piero.
Marry and shall; ifaith I were too rude,
If I gainesaide so ciuill fashion.
The maskers pray you to forbeare the roome,
Till they haue banqueted. Let it be so:
No man presume to visite them, on death.
The maskers whisper againe.
Onely my selfe? O, why with all my heart.
Ile fill your consort; here Piero sits:
Come on, vnmaske, lets fall to
The conspirators binde Piero, pluck out his tongue, and tryumph ouer him.
Ant.
Murder and torture: no prayers, no entreats.
Pan.
Weele spoyle your oratory. Out with his tong.
Ant.
I haue't Pandulpho: the vaines panting bleede,
Trickling fresh goare about my fist. Bind fast; so, so.
And.
Blest be thy hand, I taste the ioyes of heauen,
Viewing my sonne tryumph in his blacke bloode.
Bal.
Downe to the dungeon with him, Ile duugeon
with him; Ile foole you: sir Gefferey will be sir Geffrey.
Ile tickle you.
Ant.
Beholde, black dogge.
Pan.
Grinst thou, thou snurling curre?
Alb.
Eate thy black liuer.
Ant.
To thine anguish see
Vex him Balurdo.
Pan.
He weepes: now doe I glorifie my hands,
I had no vengeance, if I had no teares.
Ant.
Fal to, good Duke. ô these are worthlesse cates,
You haue no stomack to them; looke, looke here:
Here lies a dish to feast thy fathers gorge.
Here's flesh and blood, which I am sure thou lou'st.
Piero seemes to condole his sonne
Pan.
Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest sonne?
Ant.
So was Andrugio my dearest father.
Pan.
So was Feliche my dearest sonne.
Enter Maria.
Ma.
So was Andrugio my dearest husband.
Ant.
My father found no pittie in thy blood.
Pan.
Remorse was banisht, when thou slew'st my son.
Ma.
When thou impoysoned'st my louing Lord,
Exilde was pietie.
An.
Now, therefore, pittie, piety, remorse,
Be aliens to our thoughts: grim fier-ey'd rage
Possesse vs wholly.
Pan.
Thy son? true: and which is my most joy,
I hope no bastard, but thy very blood
Thy true begotten, most legitimate
And loued issue: there's the comfort ont.
Ant.
Scum of the mud of hell.
Alb.
Slime of all filth.
Mar.
Thou most detested toad.
Bal.
Thou most retort and obtuse rascall.
Ant.
Thus charge we death at thee: remember hel,
And let the howling murmurs of black spirits,
Affright thy sowle, as it descendeth downe
Into the intrals of the vgly deepe.
Pan.
Sa, sa; no, let him die, and die, and stil be dying,
They offer to runne all at Piero, and on a sodain stop.
And yet not die, till he hath di'd and di'd
Ten thousand deathes in agonie of heart.
An.
Now pel mell; thus the hand of heauen chokes
The throate of murder. This for my fathers blood.
He stabs Piero.
Pan.
This for my sonne.
Alb.
This for them all.
And this, and this; sinke to the heart of hell.
They run all at Piero with their Rapiers.
Pan.
Murder for murder, blood for blood doth yell.
Andr.
Tis done, and now my sowle shal sleep in rest.
Sons that reuenge their fathers blood, are blest.
The curtaines being drawne, Exit Andrugio.
| Antonio's Reuenge | |