University of Virginia Library

Actus Quintus.

Enter aboue, Fiormonda.
Fior.
Now fly reuenge, and wound the lower earth,
That I, en-sphear'd aboue, may crosse the race
Of Loue despis'd, and triumph o're their graues,
Who scorne the low-bent thraldome of my heart.

A Curtaine drawne, below are discouered Biancha in her night attire, leaning on a Cushion at a Table, holding Fernando by the hand.
Bia.
Why shouldst thou not be mine? why shouldst the laws
The Iron lawes of Ceremony, barre
Mutuall embraces? what's a vow? a vow?
Can there be sinne in vnity? Could I
As well dispense with Conscience, as renounce
The out-side of my titles, the poore stile
Of Dutchesse; I had rather change my life
With any waiting-woman in the land,
To purchase one nights rest with thee Fernondo,
Then be Caraffa's Spouse a thousand yeares.

Fior.
Treason to wedlocke, this would make you sweat.

Fer.
Lady of all, what I am, as before,
To suruiue you, or I will see you first,
Or widowed or buried; if the last,
By all the comfort I can wish to tast
By your faire eyes, that sepulcher that holds
Your Coffin, shall encoffin me aliue:
I signe it with this seale.—

Kisses her.
Fior.
Ignoble strumpet.

Bian.
You shall not sweare, take off that oath againe,
Or thus I will inforce it.—

Shee kisses him.
Fer.
Vse that force,
And make me periur'd; for whiles your lips
Are made the booke, it is a sport to sweare,
And glory to forsweare.

Fior.
Here's fast and loose;
Which for a Ducat, now the game's on foot.

Whiles they are kissing, Enter Duke with his sword drawne, D'auolos in like manner, Petruchio, Nibrassa, and a Guard.
Colona
within.

Helpe, helpe, Madam, you are betrayed, Madam,
helpe, helpe.

R. D,

Is there confidence in credit now, Sir? beleefe in
your owne eyes? doe you see? doe you see, Sir? Can you behold
it without lightning?

Col.
within.
Helpe, Madam, helpe.

Fer.
What noyse is that, I heard one cry.

Duke.
Ha! did you? know you who I am?

Fer.
Yes; Th'art Pauy's Duke,
Drest like a hangman: see, I am vnarm'd,
Yet doe not feare thee; tho the Coward doubt
Of what I could haue done, hath made thee steale
Th'aduantage of this time, yet Duke I dare
Thy worst, for murder sits vpon thy cheekes:
Too't man.

Duke.
I am too angry in my rage,
To scourge thee vnprouided; take him hence:
Away with him.—

They take hold on him,
Fer.
Vn-hand me.

R. D.
You must goe, Sir:

Fer.
Duke, doe not shame thy manhood to lay hands
On that most innocent Lady.

Duke.
Yet againe:
Confine him to his Chamber.
Exit D'a. et guard, with Fer.
Leaue vs all;
None stay, not one, shut vp the dores.

Exeunt omnes, but Du. et Bia
Fio.
Now shew thy self my brother, braue Caraffa.

Duke.
Woman, stand forth before me,—wretched whore,
What canst thou hope for?

Bian.
Death; I wish no lesse:
You told me you had dreamt; and gentle Duke,
Vnlesse you be mistooke, you are now awak'd.

Duke.
Strumpet I am, and in my hand hold vp
The edge that must vncut thy twist of life.
Dost thou not shake?

Bian.
For what? to see a weake
Faint trembling arme aduance a leaden blade?
Alas good man, put vp, put vp; thine eyes
Are likelier much to weepe, then armes to strike:
What wud you doe now, pray?

Duke.
What I shamelesse harlot;
Rip vp the Cradle of thy cursed wombe,
In which the mixture of that Traytors lust
Impostumes for a birth of Bastardy:
Yet come, and if thou think'st thou canst deserue
One mite of mercy, e're the boundlesse spleene
Of just-consuming wrath ore-swell my reason,
Tell me, bad woman, tell me what could moue
Thy heart to crave variety of youth?

Bian.
I tell yee; if you needs would be resolu'd,
I held Fernando much the properer man.

Duke.
Shamelesse intolerable whoore.

Bian.
What ayles you?
Can you imagine, Sir, the name of Duke
Could make a crooked leg, a scambling foot,
A tolerable face, a wearish hand,
A bloodlesse lip, or such an vntrimm'd beard
As yours, fit for a Ladies pleasure, no:
I wonder you could thinke 'twere possible,
When I had once but look'd on your Fernando,
I euer could loue you againe? Fye, fie,
Now by my life, I thought that long agoe
Y' had knowne it; and beene glad you had a friend
Your wife did thinke so well of.

Duke.
O my starres!
Here's impudence aboue all history:
Why thou detested Reprobate in vertue;
Durst thou, without a blush, before mine eyes,
Speake such immodest language?

Bian.
Dare? yes faith,
You see I dare: I know what you would say now;
You would faine tell me how exceeding much
I am beholding to you, that vouchsaf'd
Me, from a simple Gentlewomans place,
The honour of your bed: 'tis true, you did;
But why? 'twas but because you thought I had
A sparke of beauty more then you had seene.
To answer this, my reason is the like,
The selfe same appetite which led you on
To marry me, led me to loue your friend:
O hee's a gallant man! if euer yet
Mine eyes beheld a miracle, compos'd
Of flesh and blood, Fernando has my voyce.
I must confesse, my Lord, that for a Prince,
Handsome enough you are, and no more:
But to compare your selfe with him, trust me
You are too much in fault: shall I aduise you?
Harke in your eare; thanke heauen he was so slow
As not to wrong your sheets; for as I liue,
The fault was his, not mine.

Fior.
Take this, take all.

Duke.
Excellent, excellent! the pangs of death are musick to this.
Forgiue me, my good Genius, I had thought
I matcht a woman, but I find she is
A diuell, worser then the worst in hell.
Nay, nay, since we are in, ee'ne come, say on,
I marke you to a sillable: you say,
The fault was his, not yours: why, vertuous Mistresse,
Can you imagine you haue so much art
Which may perswade me, you and your close marke-man
Did not a little trafficke in my right?

Bian.
Looke what I said, 'tis true. For know it now,
I must confesse I mist no meanes, no time,
To winne him to my bosome; but so much,
So holily, with such Religion,
He kept the lawes of friendship, that my sute
Was held but, in comparison, a iest;
Nor did I ofter vrge the violence
Of my affection, but as oft he vrg'd
The sacred vowes of faith 'twixt friend and friend:
Yet be assured, my Lord, if euer language
Of cnnning seruile flatteries, intreaties,
Or what in me is, could procure his loue,
I would not blush to speake it.

Duke.
Such another
As thou art, (miserable Creature) would
Sinke the whole sexe of women: yet confesse
What witch-craft vs'd the wretch to charme the art
Of the once spotlesse temple of thy mind?
For without witch-craft it could ne're be done.

Bian.
Phew—and you be in these tunes, Sir, I'le leaue:
You know the best, and worst, and all.

Duke.
Nay then.
Thou tempt'st me to thy ruine; come blacke angell,
Faire diuell, in thy prayers reckon vp
The summe, in grosse, of all thy vayned follies:
There, amongst other, weepe in teares of blood,
For one aboue the rest; Adultery,
Adultery, Biancha; such a guilt,
As were the sluces of thine eyes let vp,
Teares cannot wash it off: 'tis not the tyde
Of triuiall wontonnesse from youth to youth,
But thy abusing of thy lawfull bed,
Thy husbands bed; his, in whose brest thou sleep'st:
His, that did prize thee more then all the trash
Which hoarding worldlings make an Idoll of:
When thou shalt find the Catalogue enrold
Of thy mis-deeds, there shall be writ, in Text,
Thy bastarding, the issues of a Prince.
Now turne thine eyes into thy houering soule,
And doe not hope for life: would Angels sing
A requiem at my hearse? but to dispense
With my Reuenge on thee, 'twere all in vaine:
Prepare to dye.

Bian.
I, doe; and to the point
Of thy sharpe sword, with open brest I'le runne
Halfe way thus naked: doe not shrinke, Caraffa,
This dants not me: but in the latter act.
Of thy Reuenge, 'tis all the sute I aske
At my last gaspe, to spare thy noble friend;
For life to me, without him, were a death.

Duk.
Not this; I'le none of this: 'tis not so fit:
casts away his sword.
Why should I kill her? she may liue and change,
Or—

Fior.
Dost thou halt? faint Coward, dost thou wish
To blemish all thy glorious Ancestors?
Is this thy Courage?

Duke.
Ha! say you so too?
Giue me thy hand, Biancha.

Bian.
Here.

Duke.
Farewell.
Thus goe in euerlasting sleepe to dwell:
draws his ponyard and stabs her.
Here's blood for lust, & sacrifice for wrong

Bian.
'Tis brauely done; thou hast strucke home at once:
Liue to repent too late: Commend my loue
To thy true friend, my loue to him that owes it,
Ny Tragedy to thee, my hart to—to—Fernand. oo oh.

(dies
Duke.
Sister she's dead.

Fior.
Then, whiles thy rage is warme,
Pursue the causer of her trespasses.

Duke.
Good:
takes vp his sword & exits.
I'le slake no time whiles I am hot in blood.

Fior.
Here's royall vengeance: this becomes the state
Of his disgrace, and my vnbounded fate.—

recedet Fior.
Enter Fernando, Nibrassa, & Petruchio.
Petr.
May we giue credit to your words, my Lord?
Speake on your honour.

Fer.
Let me dye accurst,
If euer, through the progresse of my life,
I did as much as reape the benefit
Of any fauour from her, saue a kisse:
A better woman neuer blest the earth.

Nibr.
Beshrew my heart, young Lord, but I beleeue thee:
Alas, kind Lady, 'tis a Lordship to a dozen of poynts,
But the jealous mad man will in his fury,
Offer her some violence.

Petr.
If it be thus, 'twere fit you rather kept
A guard about you for your owne defence,
Then to be guarded for security
Of his Reuenge; he's extreamely mou'd.

Nibr.

Passion of my body, my Lord, if 'a come in his odde
fits to you, in the case you are, 'a might cut your throat e're
you could prouide a weapon of defence: nay, rather then it
shal be so, hold take my sword in your hand, 'tis none of the
sprusest, but 'tis a tough fox, will not faile his master: Come
what wil come, take it, I'le answer't I; in the meane time, Petruchio
and I wil back to the Dutchesse lodging.— he giues Fer. his sword.

Petr.
Well thought on; and in despight of all his rage,
Rescue the vertuous Lady.

Nibr.
Looke to your selfe, my Lord, the Duke comes.

Enter Duke, his Sword in one hand, and in the other a bloody Dagger,
Duke.
Stand, and behold thy executioner,
Thou glorious Træytor: I will keepe no forme
Of Ceremonius law, to try thy guilt:
Looke here, 'tis written on my ponyards point,
The bloody euidence of thy vntruth,
Wherein thy Conscience, and the wrathfull rod
Of heauens scourge for lust, at once giue vp
The verdict of thy crying villanies.
I see th'art arm'd; prepare, I craue no odds,
Greater then is the iustice of my cause.
Fight, or I'le kill thee.

Fer.
Duke I feare thee not:
But first I charge thee, as thou art a Prince,
Tell me, how hast thou vs'd thy Dutchesse?

Duke.
How?
To adde affliction to thy trembling ghost,
Looke on my daggers crimson dye, and iudge.

Fer.
Not dead?

Duke.
Not dead? yes, by my Honor's truth: why foole,
Dost thinke I'le hug my iniuries? no, Traytor;
I'le mixe your soules together in your deaths,
As you did both your bodies in her life:
Haue at thee.

Fer.
Stay, I yeeld my weapon vp:—
he lets fall his weapon.
Here, here's my bosome; as thou art a Duke,
Dost honour goodnesse, if the chast Biancha
Be murther'd, murther me.

Duke.
Faint hearted Coward,
Art thou so poore in spirit? Rise and fight,
Or, by the glories of my nome and name,
I'le kill thee basely.

Fer.
Doe but heare me first,
Vnfortunate Caraffa; thou hast butcher'd
An Innocent, a wife as free from lust
As any termes of Art can Deifie.

Duke.
Pish, this is stale dissimulation,
I'le heare no more.

Fer.
If euer I vnshrin'd
The Altar of her purity, or tasted
More of her loue, then what without controule
Or blame, a brother from a sister might,
Racke me to Atomies: I must confesse
I haue too much abus'd thee; did exceed
In lawlesse Courtship ('tis too true) I did:
But by the honour which I owe to goodnesse,
For any actuall folly I am free.

Duke.
'Tis false: as much in death for thee she spake.

Fer.
By yonder starry roofe 'tis true. O Duke!
Couldst thou reare vp another world like this,
Another like to that, and more, or more,
Herein thou art most wretched; all the wealth
Of all those worlds could not redeeme the losse
Of such a spotlesse wife: glorious Biancha,
Reigne in the triumph of thy martyrdome,
Earth was vnworthy of thee.

Nib. et Petr.
Now on our liues we both beleeue him.

Duke.
Fernando, dar'st thou sweare vpon my sword
To iustifie thy words?

Fer.
I dare: looke here,—
Kisses the Sword.
'Tis not the feare of death doth prompt my tongue,
For I would wish to dye; and thou shalt know,
Poore miserable Duke, since she is dead,
I'le hold all life a hell.

Duke.
Biancha chast!

Fer.
As vertues selfe is good,

Duke.
Chast, chast, and kild by me; to her
(Offers to stabbe himselfe, and is stayed by Fer.
I offer vp this remnant of my—

Fer.
Hold,
Be gentler to thy selfe.

Petr.
Alas my Lord, this is a wise mans carriage.

Duke.
Whither now,
Shall I run from the day, where neuer man
Nor eye, nor eye of heauen, may see a dogge
So hatefull as I am? Biancha chaste,
Had not the furie of some hellish rage
Blinded all reasons sight, I might haue seene
Her clearenesse in her confidence to dye.
------ your leaue—
Kneeles downe, holds vp his hands speakes a little and riseth
Tis done, come friend, now for her loue,
Her loue that praisd thee in the pangs of death,
Ile hold thee deere: Lords, do not care for me,
Ent. D'auælos
I am too wise to dye yet—oh Biancha.

R. D.

The Lord Abbot of Monacho, sir, is in his return from
Rome, lodg'd last night late in the Citie, very priuately; and
hearing the report of your journey, onely intends to visite
your Dutchesse to morrow.

Duke.
Slaue, torture me no more, note him my Lords,
If you would choose a diuell in the shape
Of man, an Arch-arch-diuell, there stands one.
Weele meete our Vnckle—order straight Petruchio
Our Dutchesse may be coffin'd, 'tis our will
She forthwith be interr'd with all the speed
And priuacy you may, 'ith' Colledge Church
Amongst Caraffa's ancient monuments.
Some three daies hence wee'le keepe her funerall.
Damn'd villaine, bloody villaine—oh Biancha,
No counsaile from our cruell wils can win vs,
“But ils once done we beare our guilt within vs.

Exeunt omnes, manet D'auolos.
R. D.

God boyee? Arch-arch-diuell: why I am paid,
Here's bounty for good seruice; beshrew my heart it is a
right princely reward: now must I say my prayers; that I
haue liu'd to so ripe an age to haue my head stricken off; I
cannot tell, 'tmay be my Lady Fiormonda will stand on my
behalfe to the Duke: that's but a single hope; a disgrac'd

Courtier oftner findes enemies to sinke him when hee is falling,
then friends to releeue him: I must resolue to stand to
the hazard of all brunts now. Come what may, I will not
dye like a Cow, and the world shall know it.—

Exit:
Enter Fiormonda, and Roseilli discouered.
Ros.
Wonder not, Madam, here behold the man
Whom your disdaine hath metamorphosed:
Thus long haue I bin clouded in this shape,
Led on by Loue; and in that loue, despaire:
If not the sight of our distracted Court,
Nor pitty of my bondage, can reclayme
The greatnesse of your scorne, yet let me know
My latest doome from you.

Fior.
Strange miracle!
Roseilli I must honour thee: thy truth,
Like a transparent mirror, represents
My reason with my errors. Noble Lord,
That better dost deserue a better fate,
Forgiue me; if my heart can entertaine
Another thought of loue, it shall be thine.

Ros.
Blessed for euer, blessed be the words:
In death you haue reuiu'd me.

Enter D'auolos.
R. D.
Whom haue we here? Roseilli the supposed foole?
'Tis he; nay then helpe me a brazen face;
My honourable Lord.

Ros.
Beare off, blood-thirsty man, come not neere me.

R. D.
Madam, I trust the seruice—

Fior.
Fellow, learne to new liue the way to thrift
For thee in grace, is a repentant shrift.

Ros.
Ill has thy life beene, worse will be thy end;
Men flesht in blood, know seldome to amend.

Enter Seruant.
Ser.

His Highnesse commends his loue to you, and expects
your presence: he is ready to passe to the Church, only
staying for my Lord Abbot to associate him. Withall, his
pleasure is, that you D'auolos forbeare to ranke in this solemnity

in the place of Secretary, else to be there as a priuate
man; pleaseth you to goe.—

Exeunt. manet D'auolos.
R. D.

As a priuate man! what remedy? This way they
must come, and here I will stand to fall amongst 'em in the
reere.

A sad sound of soft musicke. The Tombe is discouered.
Enter foure with Torches, after them two Fryars, after the Duke in mourning manner, after him the Abbot, Fiormonda, Colona, Iulia, Roseilli, Petruchio, Nibrassa, and a guard D'auolos following behinde. Comming neere the Tombe they as kneele, making shew of Ceremony. The Duke goes to the Tombe, layes his hand on it.
Musicke cease.
Duke.
Peace and sweet rest sleep here; let not the touch
Of this my impious hand, prophane the shrine
Of fairest purity, which houers yet
About those blessed bones inhearst within:
If in the bosome of this sacred Tombe,
Biancha thy disturbed ghost doth range;
Behold, I offer vp the sacrifice
Of bleeding teares, shed from a faithfull spring;
Roaring oblations of a mourning heart.
To thee, offended spirit, I confesse
I am Caraffa, hee, that wretched man,
That Butcher, who in my enraged spleene
Slaughtered the life of Innocence and Beauty:
Now come I to pay tribute to those wounds
Which I digg'd vp, and reconcile the wrongs
My fury wrought; and my Contrition mournes
So chast, so deare a wife was neuer man,
But I, enioy'd: yet in the bloome and pride
Of all her yeares, vntimely tooke her life.
Enough; set ope the Tombe, that I may take
My last farewell, and bury griefes with her.

One goes to open the Tombe, out of which ariseth Fernando in his winding sheet, onely his face discouered; as Caraffa is going in, he puts him backe.
Fer.
Forbeare; what art thou that dost rudely presse
Into the confines of forsaken-graues?
Has death no priuilege? Com'st thou, Caraffa,
To practise yet a rape vpon the dead? Inhumane Tyrant;
Whats' euer thou intend'st, know this place
Is poynted out for my inheritance:
Here lyes the monument of all my hopes.
Had eager Lust intrunk'd my conquered soule,
I had not buried liuing ioyes in death:
Goe, Reuell in thy pallace, and be proud
To boast thy famous murthers: let thy smooth
Low-fawning parasites renowne thy Act:
Thou com'st not here.

Duke.
Fernando, man of darknesse,
Neuer till now (before these dreadfull sights)
Did I abhorre thy friendship; thou hast rob'd
My resolution of a glorious name.
Come out, or by the thunder of my rage,
Thou dy'st a death more fearefull then the scourge
Of death can whip thee with.

Fer.
Of death? poore Duke:
Why that's the ayme I shoot at: 'tis not threats,
(Mauger thy power, of the spight of hell)
Shall rent that honour: let life-hugging slaues,
Whose hands imbrued in Butcheries like thine,
Shake terror to their soules, be loath to dye:
See, I am cloath'd in robes that fit the graue:
I pitty thy defyance.

Duke.
Guard lay hands,
And drag him out.

Fer.
Yes, let 'em, here's my shield
Here's health to Victory.—
As they goe to fetch him him out, he drinkes off a Violl of poyson.
Now doe thy worst.
Farewell Duke, once I haue out-stript thy plots;
Not all the cunning Antidotes of Art
Can warrant me twelue minutes of my life:
It workes, it workes already, brauely, brauely.—
Now, now I feele it teare each seuerall ioynt:
O royall poyson? trusty friend? split, split
Both heart and gall asunder; excellent bane!
Roseilli loue my memory; well search'd out
Swift nimble venome, torture euery veyne.
I, come Biancha,—cruell torment feast,
Feast on, doe; Duke farewell. Thus I—hot flames
Conclude my Loue—and seale it in my bosome, oh—

dies.
Abbot.
Most desperate end!

Duke.
None stirre:
Who steps a foot, steps to his vtter ruine.
And art thou gone? Fernando, art thou gone?
Thou wert a friend vnmatch'd, rest in thy fame.
Sister, when I haue finisht my last dayes,
Lodge me, my wife, and this vnequall friend,
All in one monument. Now to my vowes:
Neuer henceforth let any passionate tongue
Mention Biancha's and Caraffa's name,
But let each letter in that tragicke sound
Beget a sigh, and euery sigh a teare:
Children vnborne, and widowes whose leane cheeks
Are furrowed vp by age, shall weepe whole nights,
Repeating but the story of our fates;
Whiles in the period, closing vp their tale,
They must conclude, how for Biancha's loue,
Caraffa in reuenge of wrongs to her,
Thus on her Altar sacrific'd his life.—

stabs himselfe.
Abbot.
Oh hold the Dukes hand.

Fior.
Saue my brother, saue him.

Duke.
Doe, doe, I was too willing to strike home
To be preuented: Fooles, why could you dreame
I would out-liue my out-rage sprightfull stood
Run out in Riuers? oh that these thicke streames
Could gather head, and make a standing poole,
That jealous husbands here might bathe in blood.
So; I grow sweetly empty; all the pipes
Of life vn-vessell life; now heauens wipe out
The writing of my sinne: Biancha, thus
I creepe to thee—to thee—to thee Bi—an—cha.

dyes.
Ros.
He's dead already, Madam.

R, D.
Aboue hope, here's labour sau'd, I could blesse the
Destinies

Abbot.
Would I had neuer seene it.

Fior.
Since 'tis thus,
My Lord Roseilli, in the true requitall
Of your continued loue, I here possesse
You of the Dukedome; and with it, of me,
In presence of this holy Abbot.

Abbot.
Lady, then
From my hand take your husband; long enioy
hee ioynes their hands.
Each to each others comfort and content.

Omnes.
Long liue Roseilli.

Ros.
First thanke to heauen, next Lady to your loue;
Lastly, my Lords, to all: and that the entrance
Into this principality may giue
Faire hopes of being worthy of our place,
Our first worke shall be justice.—D'auolos
Stand forth.

R. D.
My gracious Lord.

Ros.
No, gracelesse villaine,
I am no Lord of thine: Guard take him hence,
Conuey him to the prisons top; in chaines
Hang him aliue; whosoeuer lends a bit
Of bread to feed him, dyes: speake not against it,
I will be deafe to mercy.—Beare him hence.

R. D.

Mercy, new Duke: here's my comfort, I
make but one in the number of the Tragedy of Princes.

exit.
Ros.
Madam, a second charge is to performe
Your brother's Testament; wee'll reare a Tombe
To those vnhappy Louers, which shall tell
Their fatall Loues to all posterity.
Thus then for you, henceforth I here dismisse
The mutuall comforts of our marriage-bed:
Learne to new liue, my vowes vnmou'd shall stand:
And since your life hath beene so much vn-euen,
Bethinke, in time, to make your peace with heauen.

Fior.
Oh me! is this your loue?

Ros.
'Tis your desert:
Which no perswasion shall remoue.

Abbot.
'Tis fit:
Purge frailty with repentance.

Fior.
I embrace it:
Happy too late, since lust hath made me foule,
Henceforth I'le dresse my Bride-bed in my soule.

Ros.
Please you to walke, Lord Abbot.

Abbot.
Yes, set on:
No age hath heard, nor Chronicle can say,
That euer here befell a sadder day.—

Exeunt.