University of Virginia Library

Actus 4.

Scena 1.

Enter the Duke and a Messinger.
Duke.
Bvt have you found the body?

Mess.
Wee have my Lord
With long laborious search, it was three Tydes
Lockt in the armes of Neptune, who at length
Enforc'd by maine constraint resign'd it up,
But all the face so mangled and deform'd,
That but his clothes, nought could have made it known,
The which embalm'd we straight clos'd up in Lead,
And with the murderer brought it to your Grace,
That after his due exequies perform'd,
You might quench sorrow in revenge, and draw
His blood, whose hand hath spilt best part of yours.

Duke.
Thou art deceiv'd, good friend, 'twas not his hand,
But the just hand of Heaven that whips my sinnes,
And through my Veins powres out the innocent blood
Which I had spilt before; the hand that holds
The equall Ballance to discerne the waight
'Twixt Princes justice and their tyrannie,
Measures their blessings and their plagues, alike,
To their faire vertues or black infamies,
And makes the horrid acts of murderous mindes
But instruments of plague to punish guilt;
And pay us in the coyne with which we hop'd
To buy our gluttonous surfets. Such is the state
Of Princes priviledge, that we may runne
Into the depth of sinne, and uncontroul'd
Pull vengeance on our heads, while the smooth hand
Of pestilent flattery claps us on the back,
And gives us edge to villany, till they see
Misery and desolation close us round;
Then they flie back, and gaze, as on a place
Stricken with furious thunder in a storme:
When every vulgar hand has lawes, and feare
Of prying authority to hold him backe,
And friendly enemies to upbraid him with
His faults, and keepe him in the bounds of mercy,
Onely our height bereaves us of these helps,
And wee are sooth'd in vices, till we runne
Beyond the reach of grace, and stand within
The shot of heaviest vengeance, which seldome comes
Short of our merits—O my sonne! my sonne!
I shall grow madd with griefe: my frighted conscience
Opens the Booke, where I doe view my sinnes,
And feele the furies with their wounding whips
Lashing my guilty soule to penitence.

Mess.
I was unhappy
To bee the messenger of this ill newes.

exeunt.
Enter Lucilio disguised as before, meeting at the other doore Fioretta, her haire downe, strewing the way with greene hearbs and flowers.
Luci.
Who's this? Pioretta the Lady Iulia's woman?
My heart! what meanes her habit?

Fioretta sings this following to some mournfull tune.
Come Lovers bring your cares,
Bring sigh-perfumed sweets,
Bedew the grave with teares,
Where death and vertue meets:
Sigh for the haplesse houre
That knit two hearts in one,
And onely gave love power
To die when 'twas begun.

Lucil.
Saving your mirth faire Lady, what preparation's this?

Fior.

a Bridall sir; true love and greatnesse be divorc'd, and now
they bee both going to be married to misfortune.

Lucil.

'Twas a marriage long since, my selfe was at the
wedding: But be a little plainer, & tell me who it is to be maried?

Fior.

Indeed Sir, Beauty, Vertue, and too much faith for a woman,
are going to the cold armes of a sullen Churle, one that
consumes ere hee lets goe: yet hee is better than your other
husbands are; he forsakes them not, leaves them not in misery,
hee wooes them not with flatteries, and poysons with unkindnesse:
hee never sweares, and lies, but continues faithfull till
Doomes-day. Who be you?

Lucil.

A stranger in your City, a poore Husbandman.

Fior.

A poore Husband? then thou art a poore dissembler, a
poore murderer: O you husbands kill more than scurvie Physitians,
or a plaguy Summer. But art a stranger?

Lucil.

A very stranger here.

Fior.

Why that's all one, thou canst not bee a stranger to her
fame, if thou hast liv'd but a moneth in the world. Poor innocent
Althea makes her last mariage, and I am one of her Bridemaids.

Lucil.

To whom for loves sake?

Fior.

To her grave for love's sake, an honest Husband: tis better
then the Dukes sonne, that sent her from the City, to dye in the
Mountaines? Ah 'twas unkindly done, not to goe nor send after
her! yet poore Lord hee is kill'd, dead too now, and has met her
Hearse here—

So those two soules that ne'r were borne to have
A Nuptiall Bed, have found a Nuptiall Grave.

Lucil.
Antonio kill'd! Althea buried!
Then thou hast liv'd Lucilio to behold
The height of mischiefe, and the worst of chance,
And thou maist dare thy angry Starres to inflict
What ere they can effect, that's worse than this.
Murderd thy friends! ruin'd their ancient names!
Hatefull to thy Parents, lothsome to thy selfe!
O 'tis high time to die, and I doe wrong
Althea's constancy to breath an houre
After I know she has prevented me.
Methinkes I heare love chide my backwardnesse,
And tell me how unworthy I am growne,
To have two friends so firmely vertuous,
Constant and loyall, and outlive them both,
Yea be their Murderer, and stand alive
Spectator at their funerall, as I would bid
The rest weep on, whil'st I give ayme to teares,
And marke who grieves most deep at my foule actions.

Lucilio stands aside.
Enter at one doore the Coarse of the Dukes supposed Sonne, borne by Mourners, and following it the Duke and Duchesse, with others, in mourning robes. At the other doore, the Hearse for Althea, with the Scarfe which Antonio brought from the Shepherds, laid a crosse it, and borne by foure maides in blacke, with their haire disheveld, and Garlands of dead Mirtle, or other leaves, on their heads, her Mother with some Mourners following. Torches before both, and meeting they stay.
Duke.
So then, let Fortune make a period here,
Since we are met just in the midst of woe,
And stand upon the Center of mishap.
Whence we may see the full circumference
Of all that Sphere, that bounds the power of Fate.
Come Madam we will mixe our teares a while,
Dropping them joyntly on the Marble Tombes
Of our dead Issue, till the stones receive
Large Characters of griefe, carv'd by the drops
That ceaselesse flow from our too late laments.

Iul.
Great Lord, if woes with woes may be compar'd,
Or to the measure of our cause of griefe
Wee might in sad contention drop our teares,
Shower for your drop, Pound for your dramme of woe
My brest and eyes would yeeld, which now are growne
A boundlesse harbour for the depth of care.
For though wee meet in this, that both have lost
The dearest treasures of desired life,
Yet hath your Grace a partner in distresse
A comfort to the residue of your yeares,
And therefore hope that Heaven may yet restore
This ruine of your House. Besides you have
The body of your sonne, on whose dead Coarse
You may bestow your teares, and honour him
With fitting place and Royall exequies:
When Heaven hath shut those comforts from my heart,
Left me a widow to sustaine the waight
Of all this burden, and no partner else
To bring mine aged haires unto the grave
But still repining griefe: and am deny'd
The ashes of my childe, on whose cold Hearse
Mine eyes might pay those tributary teares
Which her misfortune, and my woes exact,
And onely can embrace an empty shrine.
Yet my good Lord, I oft forget my cares
To grieve at yours, and wish Althea's death
Might have suffic'd the anger of the Fates,
Without Lucilio's blood, whose guiltlesse fall
Hath strook a sadnesse through th'appalled lookes
Of all your subjects, made them stand amaz'd,
And wonder there should live upon the earth
Envy enough to blast such gracefull hopes.

Duke.
Let me be open Madam to your love,
'Tis but the doome of Iustice I sustaine;
I know I wrong'd your daughters innocence,
And onely know it now, for plagues make knowne
That, oft, for sinne, which once we thought was none.

Iul.
No my good Lord, shee was not innocent,
In that she bounded not her loosest thoughts
Within our element but would admit
The dangerous fires, of ambitious love
Into her Virgin brest, that's safelyest knit
Where all proportion justly equals it.

Duch.
Wrong not her worth good Madam; the power of death
Is weake to staine her name, and we were blest
If such perfection, joyn'd unto our Blood,
Had with our sonne succeeded in the Throne
Of this unhappy and dejected State.
Beleeve me Madam I did ever love
Althea's Vertues, and was inly glad
When by that Stratagem my son had freed
Her innocence (as I protest I thought)
And wish'd her scape as safe from that injustice
As could my heart desire.

Iul.
Alas good Madam, I have felt your Grace
Still loving to my daughters poore deserts,
And nothing did increase my sorrowes more
Then that I wanted meanes how to requite
Your Graces love.

Duke.
Come, we forget our selves in Ceremonies,
And waste the time, whose every instant yeelds
Scarce space enough for that large taske of griefe
Sorrow exacts each instant from our hearts,
Good Madam wee will consecrate one Tombe
To both their Memories; and since in life
Their hearts were so united by Loves hand,
In death their Graves shall joyne: so will ourselves
Bequeath the remnant of our dayes from hence,
You to sad cares, and we to penitence.

Exeunt the Torch-Bearers and both Coarses joyning; the Duke, Duchesse, L. Iulia, &c. following.
Lucil.
You to sad cares, and wee to pœnitence—
Why then you'll feed upon the bitter fruits
Of your ambition, and by experience finde,
Vertue, not Honour is heaven unto the minde.
Deare Father, I conceive your griefe, as true
As is my love, and feele methinkes a sting,
That spurs me onward to prevent the plagues
My losse will bring upon your hoary age,
And makes me thinke I heare the frequent voyce
Of potent Nature whisper to mine eare
The duty that I owe, and bids me meet
Those mischiefes quickly, by discovering mee:
But the perswasion's weake when I must owe
More then a duty, or all Natures selfe
To the chaste merits of Althea's love,
Who was the first I murdred; then the name
Of holy frendship, which my request abus'd
In lov'd Antonio, whom I murdred next:
My debt's above a life, which though I give,
My ghost must be a slave to pay the rest,
And their deserts stand yet unsatisfy'd.
But ô yee Spirits of truth! whose constant faiths
Merit perhaps to heare these last laments
My dying soule powres forth; be pleas'd to take
The poore oblation of a loathsome life,
Which I as gladly vow unto your loves,
As misery would turne it selfe to blisse.
And since I was a murderer to your worths,
Ile chuse that death that murderers doe passe;
And thou hadst liv'd Antonio, if thy love
Had not before with-held me from the fall,
And saving onely me hath murdred all.

exit.
Enter Antonio and Lady Iulia.
Anton.
Madam,
My love to you and to that vertuous Lord
Could doe no lesse: I doe assure your Ladiship
The murderer has confess'd, in hope of life,
The circumstances, meanes, and opportunity
Which you so fitly urg'd, and hath incens'd
The Duke so violently against your selfe,
That he has vow'd your death, & doth intend
A sharp revenge to all your family.
And but I know Lucilio yet does live,
Beleeve me Madam I should hate the fact,
And be the first should feed my thirsty eyes
With their best blood, that spilt least part of his.

Iul.
Alas Antonio, what would you have me doe,
When I beheld my daughter murdred thus
'Twixt love and hate, and I no meanes of help
To take revenge, or comfort to my griefe?

Anto.
Well Madam let's not stand to expostulate
The cause; the act was foule, and (but the hand
Of Heaven turn'd it from him 'gainst whō you meant it)
Hatefull, and worthy of the deep'st revenge.
Your way is now to shun the furious wrath
The Duke's enflamed with, and for a while
Lie close in some disguise, till the lost Prince
Make his returne, who doubtlesse will ere long
Give notice to my selfe where he remaines:
And for your farther assurance Lady, Ile take
Some strange attire with you, and we will both
Be present at the Execution.
Where you shall heare perhaps the latest words
The murderer will speake against your selfe,
And in the presence of the Duke avouch
Your guiltinesse.

Iul.
Thankes good Antonio, There the gift is free,
When 'tis bestow'd on deepest miserie.

Exeunt.
Enter Althea in her Shepherdesses apparell over her owne, which she putting off layes aside.
Alth.
Lie there thou gentle weed, that hast prolong'd
A weary life, thou whose dissembling shape
Has help'd me reach the place which drew that life
As an attractive Load-stone to it's end.
Some friendly Passinger will for this reward
Bestow perhaps a buriall on my Coarse;
And be my death as freely exempt from sight.
As is my griefe, that never innocent eyes
May bee infected with those fumes of guilt
My latest gaspe breathes forth, reserv'd till now
To bee unfortunate in all save this,
That I shall sacrifice my dearest blood
Vpon that Altar where Lucilio dyed,
And let one aire receive our joyned spirits
And sacrifices to Faiths Deitie.
She goes up the Rocke quickly, and standing ready.
And witnesse now you zealous thoughts of love,
Witnesse the vowes my affection held so deare,
Enter Lucilio in his owne habit, and walkes a turne.
My soule comes unconstrain'd to you deare Lord,
And parts as freely from a gladsome heart,
As ere it wish'd to enjoy the lively sight
Of your desired presence—
She spies him as below.
—Awake my fancy, doe mine eyes conspire
To aggravate my griefe, or does the strong
Imagination of my losse present the shape
Of his dead person to my troubled sense?

Lucil.
What strange confused passions 'gin to raise
A stormy combate 'twixt my minde and death!
Though safely now arriv'd within the Port
Where for exchange of breath I shall regaine
The long desired presence of her soule
That hovers in expectation of my comming.

Alth.
Methinkes I sleep, that, thus illusive showes
Doe mock my apprehension: or is't decreed
That even in death I must indure affliction?
And die in height of woe? How like his pace,
His gesture, shape, and countenance! true constant spirit!
(That wouldst not be unlesse thou mightst be true)
Did not my greedy sight distract my thoughts
To feed upon thy shadow, and make me forget
My businesse next in hand: I should have flowne
To be a shadow, and have walk'd with dead
Lucilio—

(As hearing somewhere the voyce of his name.
Lucil.
Lucilio! was it my fond conceit? or else (my selfe
Standing betwixt the bounds of life and death)
Her ghost, that lookes each minute for my approach,
Thinkes my stay long, and cals upon my name?
I come Althea, swift as breake the windes
From out the Eolian Caves, give mee but space
To take my flight from off that—
He lookes up to the Rocke, and seeing her stand a while amaz'd.
Bright Angell! Goddesse! whatsoe'r thou art
That hast assum'd that shape to adorne thy state,
And give a better lustre to thy Deity;
Doe not delude my woes, nor make my death
More miserable then my selfe have done.

Alth,
It does invite me speak, and with his silent looks
Seemes to intreat a word, yet my faint heart
Throbbing with feare, denies to second speech.

Lucil.
Be what thou wilt; I know no spirit of night
Durst to attempt that forme, that ne'r was made
But to invest a soule more faire and pure
Then are the Spheres. Ghost! Angel! Goddesse! Nimph!
Speake, daine a word to tell me what thou art,
That thus appearst in such a glorious shape
To intercept my death? Art thou an Angel
That thus wouldst shew the world what they have lost
By seeing her heavenly forme? Or art thou else
Some spirit of Diviner excellence
That hast put on that shadow, thine owne nature
To beautifie? Or does Althea's ghost
Come thus to meet and chide my slothfulnesse?
Or has thy worth chaste Nymph, deserv'd to scape
The hand of death, and made thy perfect selfe
All soule, immortall, and an unmixt spirit,
That those rich vertues which great nature heapt
In thy creation, might by envious death
Ne'r be dissolv'd, nor the cold senslesse earth
Embrace and taint thy pure delicious beauty,
For which the Starres grew envious to the world?
What ere thou art, if thou hast sense of griefe
But correspondent to the shape thou bear'st,
Add not more torment to the depth of woe
That does accompany my death, and urge
No more the sight and memory of her
Whom I have wrong'd; envy has left me nought
But life to yeeld in satisfaction,
Which here I come to tender as thy due:
Or if thou doubtst the payment, and didst come
To take a view how willingly I dyed;
Then be my witnesse that the chased Stagge
Flies not more swiftly to the cooling streames
Then I to death—

He runnes up to the Rocke, where both meeting, shew passions of feare.
Alth.
Stay.

Lucil.
Speake.

Alth.
O stay deare love!

Lucil.
Speake, speake thou heavenly spirit,
And tell me since thy selfe art made Divine,
What makes thee come in confines of the wretched,
And mixe thy selfe with us whose earthly loades
Detaine us yet in life and misery?

Alth.
Why, I doe live.

Lucil.
I know thou dost, thou wert not fram'd to die,
Nor at thy birth, when Heaven and Nature joyn'd
To give thee those rich Dowries thou enjoy'st,
Did they intend to make such excellence
Mortall and subject to the stroke of death.
But where deficient Nature could extend
Her force no farther to preserve thy life,
Heaven would supply the want, and turne thy state
To immortality, yet why shouldst thou,
When I have seene thy Funerals perform'd,
Come to afflict me, and augment my griefe?

Alth.
Sweet love, if you doe live, as feare and hope
'Twixt adverse passions make me doubtfull yet,
Know that I live as when we parted last,
Nor ere was yet interr'd.

Lucil.
No, no, the earth grew feeling of her losse,
And grieving to be robb'd of such a jemme,
Refus'd to shut that treasure in her wombe
Where foule corruption must have tainted it:
Or did my fortunes yet beyond thy death
Pursue thee farther, and bereaving first
Thy innocent life, in some forsaken wood
Leave thee unburyed, aud thy restlesse ghost
Comes now to seeke a Sepulcher of me?

Alth.
Great Lord, recall your selfe, and give me leave
To speake what will resolve this doubtfull maze
In which your senses wander, and can finde
No passage out. Since I last left your Grace
Travelling in that disguise, I lost indeed
Camilla, poore Companion of my cares:
But hearing that your selfe in shape of me
Was by your Fathers doome throwne off this Rock,
Knowing my sufferance guilty of your death,
I came to end my life where you had dyed,
And expiate the murder with my blood
Where 'twas committed on your guiltlesse self,
Reserv'd by Heavens mild hand to this blest houre
Wherein our innocent loves might once more meet
In spight of envie.

Lucil.
Lives my Althea then?
Then live Althea still! But speake no more
Lest the vast Tyde of joy o'rwhelme my soule,
And kill as quick as griefe: Or my sad heart
Vnable to sustaine this burden of wonder,
Sinke and yeeld vanquish'd. I have much to aske,
But let it rest: yet tell me how thou far'dst
In this long banishment?—stay, who comes yonder?
Now the wind's turn'd, and fortunes lavish hand
Powres downe content beyond expectation.

Enter Duke and Duchesse with Officers bringing Assassino to execution, after them the L. Iulia and Antonio both disguised.
Duke.
Come thou inhumane murderer of my sonne,
Traytor unto thy Countries state and safety,
And now before the stroke of Iustice seize
Thy hatefull life, resolve the wondring world
Why the slight motives of a womans words
Should winne thee to so foule and horrid crimes?

Assas.
What I have said your selfe are witnesse to,
Nor needs it be renew'd; nor can I adde
One word or syllable to make it more.

Duke.
Then let the Execution proceed,
That wee may doe this latest Exequie
To his wrong'd ghost, which is to see his blood
Reveng'd with blood of those that murdred him,
As we have vow'd to doe, and not to leave
These weeds of sorrow, till we have consum'd
The race and name of them that did conspire
In this abhorred Action: And would it might
Suffice the injuries we did his life,
Thus to revenge his too untimely death;
And from that height—
He sees them on the Rocke, and stands amaz'd.
Am I awake, or dreame I? Is it my fancy
Breeds this delusive show in my weak braine?
Or doe their soules come to condemne our guilt,
More cōscious of their death, then whō we have brought
To die for it? See, doe thy dazled eyes
Perceive that object which my selfe beholds:
Or is't some shadow that abuses mee?
And none but mee?

Duch.
My sonne my Lord, my sonne!
More knowne by's ghost, then if his living forme
Had met mine eyes: ô speake to him my Lord!

Duke.
If thou beest such as is thy semblance,
By all that duty that thy life did owe
Vnto a Parent; by the Bands once due,
Of Love and Nature, that unites the soules
Of children and their carefull nourishers,
I doe adjure thee tell, why in this midd'st
Of day you come thus to renew our griefe?
What has there wanted to your Funerals,
When we have wept us dry, and spent our teares
More thicke than winter showers upon your Hearse?
Done all the Rites and Exequies were due
To your interring? And have vow'd revenge
To all that did conspire in that foule Act
Of thy too guiltlesse murder

Lucil.
Know that wee are return'd
From out those Seats of Blisse where we were plac'd
By your unjust proceedings, to make knowne
That what you did was 'gainst the will of Fate.
For see, what you deny'd upon the earth,
The power of Heaven does grant, and has confirm'd
Our long-borne loves with an Eternall peace:
Where our two soules in sweetest union knit,
Enjoy their Nuptials out of Envies reach.
Yet know there are some punishments reserv'd
For the vile Treasons practis'd in pursuite
Of our unmerited wrongs; and that their sinne
Is mark'd for plagues, that seeke by force to breake
The League that Love and Faith doe joyntly knit.

Duke.
Then let 'hem fall, wee are prepar'd for woes
Though shot as thick as Haile from out the Clouds,
Our guilt is greater than those punishments,
Or all our future plagues can expiate.
The Duke and Duchesse both kneele.
Yet on our bended knees thus low to earth
As we did both conspire in that foule plott
We here entreat your pardons, and withall
Wish the offended Heavens would bee appeas'd
With Vowes and Orisons; and would your ghosts
Forget those injuries wee did your loves
And rest in peace with us, and with the world.

Lucil.
Father we will, but should we live againe,
You would not yet relent, and yeeld our loves
The sufferance you see the Heavens have done.

Duke.
By Heavens I would; nor should the potent'st hand
Of earth resist your present Nuptials.

Lucil.
Then wee'll be ghosts no more, but ever sue
For your mild sufferance of our happinesse.

Come downe, both kneele.
Duke.
Wonder and amazement do not oppresse me!

Duch.
O we are blest beyond desert!

Alth.
Yet is my joy but small amidst your many,
Since you have burnt my innocent Mother,
And razd our Family.

Iul.
No my deare daughter, see I safely live
Ne'r blest till now, and now o'r-joyd with blisse,

Lucil.
Then joyes would be compleate had I not lost
By thy vile murderous hand so deare a friend.

Anton.
Your friend still lives, and never felt his life
Sweet till this instant, when I may behold
These joyes combin'd.

Duke.
Why then there nothing wants
But celebration of your Nuptials,
Which we will doe with greater signes of joy,
Then we had griefe in your supposed Funeralls.
But whose death is this murderer guilty of?

Ant.
Onely Alastors, a fellow as wicked as himself.

Duke.
We give him then his life, but banish him
From our Dominions: and for this strange event
We will expect a farther leisure
To heare the whole discovery of the chance,
And leave the rest to mirth, that shall command
In all our Feasts, and whom wee'll Crowne as King,
To be chiefe Lord in all our Banquetting.

Exeunt omnes.