Sicily and Naples, or, the Fatall Vnion :: :: University of Virginia Library

Exit Ser.

Enter Zisco.
Urs.
See, he comes: here's one that's fit to kill a King,
A thing, whose soule is nothing but a spot
Transmitted from foule parricides, whose thoughts
aside.
Weare a more deepe and horrid blacke, than that
Which spreads upon his body—
My Zisco welcome.

Zisc.
This day my Lord—

Urs.
No more, I know what thou would'st say: I promis'd
To endeare thee to Ferrando's love, and knowledge,
Are you according to my instructions ready
To meete all his demands?

Zis.
Perfect.

Urs.
With a forg'd Commendamus from his holinesse?

Zisc.
—Of my stout service done against the Turkes
In the Lepanto battle, where I turn'd Christian,
And was baptiz'd in mine owne blood.

Urs.
'Tis well, but how stands't thou resolv'd for our designe?

Zisc.
Unmov'd as destiny.
—Could you have told me of it in that minute
I should have acted it, I'de owe you for
The glory of a sinne, I might have boasted of;
What we intend, nere rises to that height
As what we act, because t'may prove abortive,

And perish in the thought, and for such crimes,
I onely have repentance.

Urs.
But he's a Prince—

Zisc.
Why there's the honour on't,
Killing the head, I kill the body too,
And at one blow lay a whole Kingdome gasping.

Urs.
—One upon whom attends a guard of men,
And Angels, on whose brow divinity
Sits character'd, a Majestie that darts
Fork't arrows into the guilty soule, and strikes
A palsied feare through every limbe and joy at
Of the murderer.

Zisc:
Fancie, fancie this.
I'me proofe against it; Ile take him in's cups
When he's drunke, betray him to a rape,
Or fowler sinne, then kill him in the act.

Urs.
Whom?

Zis.
The King.

Urs.
Traytour.

Zis.
'Tis as soone done as thought of.

Urs:
He never lov'd thee Zisco, nor was knowne
By speciall favours to deserve thee to him;
But he has made me great, worne me in's soule;
His father tooke mee up, when I was nothing,
Bequeath'd me to him, as a care hereditary,
Belonging to the Crowne, plac't mee so neere him,
I've growne, and spread like a tall mountaine Cedar.

Zisc:
And dare encounter lightning, stand a thunder-bolt,
Or enrag'd winds; contend with that high influence
By which you flourish, yet nere feare a blasting:
His favour is a tyranny; it is
The pride of Princes, to be thought Gods here
On earth, daring to mocke omnipotence,
To create them favourites, set them aloft
In their owne spheare, till remote Kingdomes gaze
At their prodigious height, then in an instant
Shoote them from thence, like falling meteors:

Had he not lov'd you first, you could not be
The object of his hate, you were too poore,
And safe, when 'twas, to have him glory in
Your ruines: innocence below enjoyes
Security, and quiet sleepes, murder's not heard of,
Treachery is a stranger there, they enjoy
Their friends, and loves, without ravishment,
They are all equall, every one's a Prince,
And rules himselfe, they speake not with their eyes,
Or browes, but with the tongue, & that too dwells i'th heart:
Were it but thus at Court,
Alberto, your fam'd Marquesse had not fallen.—

Urs.
Alberto: ha.

Zis:
Why start you Sir?

Urs:
'Tis he: Frederico.
Aside.
Oh that man! he was unhappie in his Princes love.

Zis:
Your honours are no more your owne than his:
'T was the same favour that conferr'd them both,
And the same frowne may take 'em both away:
He lets you onely grow till you are envy'd,
And then you'le fall unpittied.

Urs.
I have learn'd cruelty from him:
Zisco, thou shalt applaud the mysteries,
The rare contrivances of my revenge;
My fate lyes in his brest, but this, this arme
Shall ravish't thence.

Zisc.
Now your rage becomes you:
When Princes put off their humanity,
Murders, a holy sinne, you may be good,
And fall like him, whose aged head lies low,
Low in the dust.

Urs.
Againe? this confirmes it.

Aside.
Zis.
The groanes of whose sunke house, are heard
To affright strangers; whilst Naples yet
Stain'd with the purple tyde, his soule swam forth in,
Do's blush at it's owne guilt; his sonne Frederico
(You know) was lost at Sicily in a croud.

Urs.
'Tis so reported, yet I beleeve—

Zisc.
My Lord.

Urs.
That he was slaine at Ferrando's command.

Zis.
Perhaps and by a slave.
Felicia too, unhappy maid—

Urs.
Your sister, (aside,)
—I there,
Now thou strik'st home.

Zis.
First wonne to his embraces
By vollies of false oathes, her virgin honour
Rifled, her chast wombe swolne with the imposthume
Of his salt lust, then torne with spight from's bosome,
Ravish't, murder'd, and by whom? (I could hate my selfe,
For taking birth amongst such,) cursed Moores:
Were shee your enemy, her cause, and sex
Would challenge pitty; but you lov'd her dearly,
The Mistresse you ador'd; who then can thinke
But that your soule is blacke, and stain'd as his,
That are thus tame?

Urs.
Zisco, th'ast rais'd a flame within this breast
Nought but his blood can quench:—thanks to my braine;—
It shall be so;—The fatall raven croakes;
'Tis ominous, if he outlive this night
We are no more:—Come we'le goe plot within.

Exeunt.