 | Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth |  |
SCENE I.
Enter Machiavel, and Alonzo.Alonz.
My Lord, I have been diligent.
Mach.
And always wer't my subtle Emissary;
My glance of Death, and Lanthorn to my mischiefs.
Alonz.
I met the Duke of Gandia at the Head
Of his new Forces, and acquainted him
As you directed; and he'll streight attend you:
But as I whisper'd him, Duke Valentine
With a vast Train came up to take his leave,
Being call'd (as Fame reports) to Sinigallia:
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Which Borgia swore should be inviolable,
And ratifi'd 'em with a parting Kiss.
Mach.
'Tis my own Borgia; a very Limb of me;
And when he dies, thou'lt see me halt, Alonzo.
Enter Gandia.
My Lord, most welcom! Alonzo—hence—O Prince!—
Ex. Alonz.
Was ever Slave so careful for his Lord,
That watch'd his Nod, as I have been for you?
Gand.
I must with shame to Death acknowledge it.
But didst thou know, or could'st thou guess, how near
The loss of Bellamira touches me,
Thou would'st forgive me.
Mach.
I have excus'd you, Sir:
And for a witness of my faster Friendship,
This Night have sent the Duke to Sinigallia,
That you might take your last farewel of Love,
And Bellamira.
Gand.
And has the Cruel Fair consented to it?
Mach.
She has consented, rather by constraint,
Than her own will: I was forc'd to tell her,
How you had signifi'd to me, her Father
Was in great hazard; but if she vouchsaf'd
A Visit, you would satisfie her better.
Enter Alonzo.
Gand.
Ha! what's this? a sudden fall of Spirits—
Alonz.
My Lord, he's in's Litter muffled up,
In a dark Avenue behind the Palace;
And bid me fly to tell you, Tarquin's Poppies
Are bound up all together in one Sheaf.
Mach.
Haste thee, and make my Answer thus—The Time
Calls for their Heads. This Key, my Lord, admits you—
Gand.
'Tis now no time for thanks; but if I live—
[Exit.
Mach.
Why, this is true Italian! turning thus
A Key with Machiavellian slight of hand,
Two Families of the best Southern Blood,
With the first Prince in Rome, are quite extinct:
What foggy Northern Brain would dream of this?
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Borg.
My Machiavel!
Mach.
My Prince, my God like Borgia!
Borg.
Tell me my Bosom-sin; am I awake?
Alive? and may I credit this thy Summons?
Mach.
No sooner were you gone, but your Chaste Wife,
Whom I imagin'd dead with what you utter'd:
I say, this Wife, this heavenly Wife of yours,
Rearing her Head, and wiping her dry Eyes,
Dropping her Chin to make her smile more scornful,
Cry'd out, Lord Machiavel, you see, you see,
What Things these Husbands are, and left the Room.
Borg.
Racks, racks, and fire; Caldrons of molten Lead,
How shall I torture her?
Mach.
Sreight, by her walking Pacquet,
She signifi'd her pleasure to the Duke,
Who soon approach'd, and with a matchless boldness
Desir'd my friendship in this private business:
I smil'd, and promis'd that I would not see,
Though I beheld Adorna let him in;
Whom since I poyson'd, left she should betray
The secret of your coming.
Borg.
By Death and Vengeance
I could turn Cannibal, and with my teeth
Tear her alive. But let us talk no more.
Enter D. Michael.
What Hoa, Don Michael! when I stamp my foot
Against the ground, bring forth the Prisoners,
And execute as I shall order.
[Ex. Michael.
Mach.
Pass the back way, my Lord, this Door is lock'd,
If that be shut too, force it open, while
I set a Guard on this: Millions to one,
But when she hears your voice, she'll hide the Duke,
And then deny him boldly to your Face.
'Tis like those subtle Creatures.
Borg.
Dam 'em, Serpents!
What needs this aggravation? Revenge! away—
[Exit.
Mach.
Now like a Grey-bound barking in the slips,
Death struggles for a loose; I must be gone,
And lurk in Shadows till the Murder's done.
Hark, 'tis doing, the Doors are thunder'd down!
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All that oppose my Tyrant, to the Center—
Scene draws: Borgia, Bellamira, Duke of Gandia disarm'd: D. Michael, &c.
Borg.
Slave, run you down, and bar the Palace Gates;
Let not a Souldier stir on pain of death,
Till I appoint. What's he you have disarm'd?
Haste, drag him forth, and put the Tapers near him:
Lightning and Thunder! Ha! the Duke of Gandia!
Rage burn me up; it is not possible:
Woman, O Woman!
Bella.
O Heav'ns! O all ye Powers!
Is there not one, one Door for Mercy left?
Borg.
Pull off his Robes, and bind him to a Chair;
Ply him with Fire and Wounds—Yes, Bellamira,
There is a Flood-gate—but it is of Blood;
A Gate for Mercy wide, as thou hast shown
For Honour, Chastity, and Bridal Vertue.
See here the Sluce I draw, through doors of wounds;
Thy Vows; this sulphurous stench thy Kisses.
Bella.
Hold, hold, Tormentors!
Borg.
Seize the Furies Arms,
And execute my Orders.
Gand.
O unmerciful!
O Borgia: when, when shall my Torments end?
Bella.
Ha! is it doing? Wretches, Villains, Dogs,
Miscreants, Sons of Hell, and Broods of Darkness!
Gand.
Humanity can bear no more. My heart, strike there.
Bella.
'Tis done; O the dark deed is done!
O let me gather all the rage of Woman,
And tell this Tyrant to his Teeth, he is a Villain.
Gand.
Mercy, gentle Borgia, mercy!
Bella.
He gentle; then the Devils themselves have mercy,
O Monster, rocky Villain, Tyger, Hell-hound,
Seize him you Fiends, and Furies dam him, dam him,
May Hell have infinite stories, and this Devil
Be damn'd beneath the bottomless Foundation.
Borg.
By Heav'n she weeps: here, dip her Handkerchief
Dip'd in his blood, and bid her dry her eyes.
Bella.
O thou Eternal Mover of the Heav'ns,
Where are thy Bolts?
Gand.
I go, O Bellamira!
Think'st thou, alas, that we shall know each other
In the bright World; I fear we shall not—Oh!
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Let Bellamira live, and I forgive thee.—
Dies.
Bella.
He's gone; to Heav'n he's gone, as sure as thou
Shalt sink to Hell, thou Tyrant, double damn'd:
Nay, thou would'st have me rage, and I will rage,
And weep, and rage, and show thee to the world,
Thou Priest, Archbishop, Cardinal, and Duke,
Thou that hast run through all Religous Orders,
And with a form of Vertue cloak'd thy horrors!
Thou proper Son of that old cursed Serpent,
Who daubs the holy Chair with Blood and Murders:
But sure the Everlasting has a Chain
To bind yours Charm, and link you both together;
Hells Vicar, and his first begotten Devil,
Hotter than Lucifer in all his Flames.
Enter Alonzo.
Borg.
What, hoa, Alonzo! strangle the prisoners,
Orsino! Vitellozo: haste, I say,
Without reply.—
Bella.
O spare him! spare my Father!
And I'll unsay, forswear all that I have said:
O, I have play'd the Woman now indeed,
A lying, foolish, vext, outragious Woman!
To set your Wrath against the Innocent;
There was a seeming cause for the Dukes Death
And mine; But, Oh! what has Orsino done?
Orsino loves you: Oh, that good old man!
Your Father—For so a thousand times
I've heard you call him, seen you kiss, embrace him!
Therefore he must not, cannot dye!
Borg.
Alonzo!
Alonz.
My Lord!
Borg.
Slave, I'll strangle thee
[Strikes him.
With my own hands! if thou delay'st my Vengeance:
Say, Villain, what, not dead?
Alonz.
My Lord, they are:
And, if I live, you shall repent this blow—
[Aside,
Borg.
Go, draw the Curtain; glut her eyes with Death,
And strangle her: my Veins are all on Fire,
And I could wade up to the eyes in blood.
Draw, draw the Curtain.
[Orsin. Vitellez. D. Graviana, Oliverotto, appear disguised.
Bella.
Gorgon, Medusa, Horror;
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To clasp him in my arms, O wretched Paul,
O noble Orsin, what quite cold? pale, dead?
And you, dear Images, will you not give
One gasp of breath, one groan, one last farewel?
Horror! Confusion! and eternal shame
Light on thee for this deed: I tell thee, Borgia,
I see thee on thy Death-Bed, all on Fire,
As if some Hellish poison had inflam'd thee;
I see thee thrown ten Fathom in a Well,
Yet still come up, like Ætna's belching Flames?
Borg.
I hope thou wilt go mad, and prophesie!
Bella.
Yes, Tyrant, thus, thus to thy face I brave thee,
And tell thee in despite of Threats, e're long
Thou and thy holy Father shall be seiz'd,
And carry'd to the Everlasting Goal;
From whence not all your Spanish Cardinals,
Your Bailiffs, in red Liveries, shall redeem you—
Borg.
Dye in thy prophesie; Alonzo end her—
Bella.
Thus, on my knees then—And for terror to thee,
Hear my last prayer, and mark my dying words.
If I in thought, in word, in private act
Have yielded up this body to the Arms
Of ought that's Mortal, but inhuman Borgia!
Oh thou impartial and most awful Judge!
Shut, shut thy gates of bliss against my Soul;
But if my tortur'd vertue merits glory,
Pardon my frailties, see with what joy
I leave this life, and bring me to perfection.
[She is strangled.
Borg.
What, at her Death! she that believ'd a Heav'n,
And fear'd, a Hell, yet to depart a Lyar:
But how know I that she believ'd a Heav'n?
Or why with hopes that in the pangs of Death
I would reprieve her, might she not deny
Her Whoredom to the last? but that's unnatural!
What wouldst thou then? I will no more of this;
It clouds my brain: Hence, Alonzo, bear,
Bear the Duke of Gandia's Body to the Tiber
In some close Chair, tye at his neck a Weight,
And plung him to the Bottom.
Alonz.
my Lord 'tis done.
Ex. Executioners with the Body.
Borg.
I swear I have been cruel to my self,
For that I lov'd her, is as true, as she
Is past the sense on't: she is cold already—
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Mach.
Ha! this is stately Mischief! what, my four Foes
Of Florence! but they are dumb. Ha! gazing there,
I like not that—
Borg.
Her lips are lovelyst ill;
The Buds, tho gather'd, keep their Damask Colour:
Yes, and there odour too! haste Machiavel,
Rush to my aid: I grow in Love with death.
She shall not dye! Run Slaves! fetch heither Spirits,
I will recover her again!
Mach.
Again to plague?
To meet again another Duke of Gandia?
Borg.
Death on that thought: no, let her dye, and rot;
The damn'd Adultress! perish the thoughts of her.
Ha, tell me, come: I will no more of her.
How shall the bodies be dispos'd? I sent
My Brother to the Tyber
Mach.
That's a trouble,
I'll find an easier way for these, and her
That sleeps within my Closet. Go, Don Michael,
Bury'em all together in quick Lime;
In some few hours the flesh will be consum'd:
Then burn the bones, and all is dust and ashes.
[Draw here the Curtains on 'em.
Borg.
I swear this body shall not be consum'd;
I'll have't embalm'd to stay a thousand years.
O Machiavel! I swear, I know not why,
But with a World of horror to my Soul,
With tremblings here, Convulsions of the heart;
As if I had some God thus whisper to me.
Thou ought'st to grieve for Bellamira's Death.
Mach.
My Lord, a very fond and foolish Fancy.
Borg.
I say, my Lord, your policy is out:
Furies and Hell! how should you judge of Love,
That never lov'd? Thou hast no taste of Love,
No sense. no rellish—why did I trust thee then?
Had any softness dwelt in that lean bosom,
My Bellamira, now had been alive:
Tho I had cause to kill her, thou hadst none;
To set me on, but honour; jealous honour!
Oh the last night! I tell thee, Pollititian!
When I run o're the vast delight, I curse thee,
And curse my self; nay wish I had been found
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And thou lov'st me, drive her from my Memory.
[They remove her.
Tell me my Brothers Murder is discover'd;
That the four Ghosts are up again in arms:
Say any thing to make me mad, and lose
This Melancholly, which will else destroy me.
Mach.
I here the Pope has sent to Sinigallia
To call you back.
Borg.
By Heav'n, I had forgot,
And thou most opportunely has remembred:
You know twelve Cardinals were then created,
That solemn Morn that I receiv'd the Rose;
And I will tell thee, halfe those Fools are marrow,
That bought so high, shall veil their Caps for ever.
Mach.
He mends apace; 'tis but another shrug,
And then this Love, this Ague Fit is lost.
Borg.
I swear—I'll to the Wars, and ne're return
To Rome, till I have brav'd this haughty French-man,
That menac'd so of late.
Mach.
Why, this is Borgia.
Come, come, you must not droop; look up, my Lord;
Methinks I see you Crown'd Rome's Emperour.
No doubt, Sir, but among your glorious Plunder,
You'll find some Woman—
Borg.
Ha! no more, I charge thee.
I swear I was at ease, and had forgot her:
Why did'st thou wake me then, to turn me wild,
And rouze the slumbering Orders of my Soul?
To my charm'd Ears no more of Woman tell;
Name not a Woman, and I shall be well.
Like a poor Lunatick that makes his moan,
And for a time beguiles the lookers on;
He reasons well, his eyes their wildness lose,
And vows the Keepers his wrong'd sense abuse:
But if you hit the cause that hurt his Brain,
Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his Chain,
His Eye balls rowl, and he is mad again.
Exeunt.
Enter one Executioner with a dark Lanthorn, follow'd by another at a distance; they part often, look up and down, and hem to the rest.
1. Exec.
The Coast is clear, and all the Guards are gone.
2. Exec.
Hark, hark; what noise was that?
1. Exec.
The Clock struck three.
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See, the Moon shines; haste, and call our Fellows.
Hem to 'em; that's the Sign.
1. Exec.
They come, they come.
Enter Four Executioners more; Two carry the body of the Duke of Gandia in a Chair; the others follow, and scout behind.
3. Exec.
So—set him down, and let 'em beat their part,
For I am weary—
4. Exec.
And so am I: I sweat; but 'tis with fear.
1. Exec.
Make no more words on't; take him from the Chair.
2. Exec.
A ghastly sight. The Weight about his Neck
Has bent him almost double: I'll not touch him—
3. Exec.
Cowardly Villain—Come, my Princely Master,
The Fishes want their Break fast.
4. Exec.
Joyn all together,
And hurl him o're this Wall into the Tyber.
2. Exec.
Fly, fly—I hear a noise: The Guards, the Guards.
3. Exec.
He lies, he lies; the Coynage of his fears;
Once more, I say, joyn all your hands together.
Remember the Reward, two thousand Crowns
A Man: but for that Milk-sop, I suspect him;
Therefore let's watch our time, decoy him on;
And when this business is a little o're,
Strangle him in some Corner, lest he prate
Of what is done. Now, now's the time, away—
They joyn all together; take him by the Legs and Arms, and hurl him over the Wall into the Tyber: A noise is heard, as of a Body falling into the Water—They look about once more, then start, take up the Chair, and run out—Scene shuts.
| Caesar Borgia ; Son of Pope Alexander The Sixth | |