University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Platform.
Enter Marcellus, supporting Manoa; Attendants behind.
MARCELLUS.
Look up, sir; you are safe. The tempest's wildness
Seems hush'd on shore. Where was your vessel bound?

MANOA.
Ancona was her port; the hurricane
Baffled our pilot's skill, and drove us headlong
(Just as your ship made good her anchorage,)
On the sharp rock, where you beheld her split.
All my companions, fifty luckless men,
Sunk in my sight; and I had shar'd their fate,
Had not your strong arm sav'd me. But, alas,
We are in Genoa, if mine eyes deceive not.

MARCELLUS.
The same.

MANOA.
Too well I know it. Shield me Heaven!
For what am I reserv'd?

MARCELLUS.
I hope, to lose
The memory of your grief, and find peace here.

MANOA.
O no! to lose my life, if I'm found here.

MARCELLUS.
Pray, let me know your story. By your habit
I guess you are not of our faith or nation.

MANOA.
I am by birth of Syria; but here sojourn'd
Twice twenty years in wealth and fair repute,
Till Christian malice, or my nation's curse,
Or both combining, turn'd me forth a wanderer.
Look there, that very mansion once was mine.

MARCELLUS.
I now recall some traces of that face:
Your name is Manoa?

MANOA.
Ay, that wretch am I.
Thou hast an aspect so benign and noble,
Thou could'st not injure me.

MARCELLUS.
Myself much sooner.

MANOA.
This state, for its late levies 'gainst the Turk,
Call'd on all traffickers for sums of gold;
Our tribe, at my persuasion, furnish'd them,
On rates so easy to the borrowers,
The native merchants' offers were refus'd,
And publick clamour, and disgrace, pursued them:
Thence grew their hate. Of black and monstrous crimes,
Avouch'd on oath by witnesses suborn'd,
They charg'd me guiltless: flight alone was left,
To save my hunted life.

MARCELLUS.
And I remember,
'Twas rumour'd you had perish'd by the sea,
Attempting your escape; and so believ'd:
Knaves call'd your fate a judgment.

MANOA.
To prevent
A hot pursuit, the Hebrews here in Genoa
By common concert spread abroad that rumour.
The death they feign'd, this morning, but for thee,
My brave preserver, had indeed o'erta'en me.

MARCELLUS.
I can do more to serve you. Name your wish.

MANOA.
At present, this. Not far from hence resides
The lord Durazzo, whose great wealth and power,
As heaven sends dews and sunshine, are dispens'd
To gladden every humble thing beneath them.
Let your men help me there, for I am feeble;
And this disguise may save me from the note
Of those who pass,—though in this slothful city
Few leave their down so early.

MARCELLUS.
Sir, farewel!
You shall hear more of me.

MANOA.
Accept my prayers!
My heart's too full to speak the thanks I owe you.

[Exit Manoa, with Attendants.
MARCELLUS.
He has been sorely wrong'd.—But who goes there?
[Camillo passes over the stage.
I cannot sure mistake him: 'Tis Camillo.
Good kinsman, turn, and own a friend who loves you.

[Camillo returns.

SCENE II.

Camillo, Marcellus.
CAMILLO.
A gentle invitation. Ha! Marcellus!
Welcome once more to Genoa, my dear cousin.
[embracing.
We heard you had escap'd with some slight hurts
That bloody lingering business there at Candia;
But such fierce storms of late have swept our coasts,
Our fears were, lest the angry elements,
Leaguing alike against the Christian cross,
Might prove worse foes even than the infidels.

MARCELLUS.
We had rough weather, but our sturdy bark
Out-rode it. Is my mother well? At leisure
I shall fatigue your ear with other questions
My ignorance and your kindness must excuse.

CAMILLO.
You have not seen her then?

MARCELLUS.
No. I arriv'd
Within this hour; and knowing how she lov'd,
Lov'd even to dotage, my poor brother Claudio,
(Lost by a fate so strange and horrible,)
I would not rush at once into her presence,
Till some kind friend, like you, should first inform me,
How best to assuage her grief, and hide my own.

CAMILLO.
Thought like a son. But O, his vanish'd form,
Again presented in your living likeness,
Will with the strong extreme convulse her soul,
And joy so mix'd with anguish doubly shake her.

MARCELLUS.
'Twas what I fear'd, Camillo. I must try then
To fix her fond attention on myself,
And shun that direful theme.

CAMILLO.
Direful indeed!
(How my heart shrinks even now to think of it!)
'Tis ever present to her tortur'd fancy:
And we who daily see her, have observ'd,
Our care to give the current of her thoughts
A different course, but swells up her impatience,
You know the lady Fulvia's ardent temper,
How sudden, yet how strong in every feeling.

MARCELLUS.
Our burning mountains, when their fires burst forth,
Rage not more fiercely than her breast inflam'd.
But is it possible, in all this time,
Months after months elaps'd, no light, no spark,
To guide to a discovery has been trac'd?
The Turkish gallies so o'erspread the sea,
My letters rarely reach'd me while at Candia.

CAMILLO.
What have you heard?

MARCELLUS.
But thus much, and no more:
Two days ere that for his intended marriage
With good Durazzo's daughter, lovely Julia,
Was Claudio missing; two days more were pass'd
In fruitless search, and sad anxiety:
When on the fifth, some weary mariners,
Flying for shelter from a furious storm,
Midst the white caverns on the western shore,
A mile from Genoa, found his lifeless body:
In his clench'd hand was his own blood-stain'd sword,
And in his manly breast a mortal wound.

CAMILLO.
And there ends all our knowledge. Proclamation
Of vast rewards to find his murderer,
Is still abroad through all the Italian states.
The untouch'd jewels of his costly habit,
Bright and conspicuous, clearly manifest
'Twas not the crime of men who kill for spoil.

MARCELLUS.
Alas, Camillo, well I know the place;
When we were boys it was our favourite haunt.
He could not sure have fall'n by his own sword?

CAMILLO.
Impossible: A thought so black and sullen
Ne'er dim'd the sunshine of his chearful breast.
The joy he long had sigh'd for in his reach,
Possess'd of all that gilds the morn of life,
And each fair prospect bright'ning to his hopes;
Besides, the exalted tenour of his mind,
Too firm and full for wild extremities;
They crush that black conclusion: nay, the skilful,
Who search'd the wound with closest art and care,
Pronounc'd it, not the execrable work
Of his own sword, but some assassin's steel.

MARCELLUS.
May wakeful conscience, like a writhing snake,
If still he lives, curl round the villain's heart,
With sharpest venom to consume and gnaw him!
I know our base, Italian, stabbing spirit;
In the close art of murder none excell us.
We tread the very earth, breathe the same air,
With our old Latian sires; but, for their virtues,
As well might eagles rustle their large plumes
Where owlets roost, or filthy kites engender,
As they find shelter in our dastard breasts.

CAMILLO.
Let others rail; but thine's a nobler task;
To shame degen'racy by fair example:
For twenty forward spirits, like thine own,
Might shake this state from its inglorious trance,
And rouse our sloth to gallant enterprise.

MARCELLUS.
I left it a luxurious, worthless city,
Proud of its trash, its wealth; if such I find it,
I will not strike my lazy root at home,
To rot in rank contagious apathy,
But seek again a scene of vigorous action.
The unskilful perseverance of the Turk
Still wakes excitement for a soldier's ardour.—
But who are those so earnest in discourse?
This way they move.

CAMILLO.
Durazzo is the eldest.

MARCELLUS.
Fair Julia's father; him I know. The other?

CAMILLO.
Mentevole his name, a noble youth,
And suitor (hopelessly, I think,) to Julia,
Though vulgar fame calls him a favour'd wooer.
But this report, startling your mother's ear,
(Who brooks no slight to her son's memory,)
Has much estrang'd her from Durazzo's house:
And thus, the bonds of their long amity
The lie with many mouths has puff'd asunder.

MARCELLUS.
My care shall be to reunite their friendship,
But how must I esteem Mentevole?

CAMILLO.
As one accomplish'd, brave, and liberal.
Soon after your departure for the siege,
He came from travel home, and was to Claudio
A second self.

MARCELLUS.
So shall he be to me;
I'll wear him here. But go thou to my mother,
Prepare her for my coming. For a moment
Leave me to greet this venerable lord,
And beg his introduction to the stranger.

[Exit Camillo.

SCENE III.

To Marcellus, Durazzo, and Mentevole.
The ruddy hue your visage owns, my lord,
I see with pleasure is sound health's true ensign:
Your eye's quick spirit too, proclaims you fresh
As when the race of careless youth began.

DURAZZO.
Such is your wish, Marcellus, and I thank you.
O welcome, to thy country! thy smooth cheek
Has chang'd its down for manhood since we parted.
But for these well-known kindred lineaments,
I scarce durst swear, thou wert that playful boy,
Whose frolicks used to mar our gravity,
And make us smile while chiding.

MARCELLUS.
I remember
Your goodness always; now entreat your favour,
To recommend me to this lord's esteem,
As, by the title of my brother's friend,
He claims already mine.

DURAZZO.
Mentevole,
Give him your hand.

MENTEVOLE.
My heart too, 'twas his brother's;
And by that pledge grows thus at once acquainted.

DURAZZO.
Marcellus, you must tell me of your wars,
Your mines, your sallies, ambuscades, and dangers.
Though now 'tis long since I was cased in steel,
The cresent of our swarthy foe has felt me.

MARCELLUS.
They are slugglish soldiers, but right obstinate:
So numerous too, it seems an easier task
To kill, than count them. Now twice fifty thousand,
And more, have fall'n, in sacking one poor isle;
Yet, like light foam chaf'd by the curling surge,
Each hour new turbans whiten round its shores.—
But yet I have not visited my mother,
And she by this expects me.

DURAZZO.
Get thee to her.
Unhappy lady, may your presence cheer her!

[Exit Marcellus.

SCENE IV.

DURAZZO
, MENTEVOLE.
Is he not like to Claudio?

MENTEVOLE.
Rather say,
Is't not himself, as ere the tomb receiv'd him?
But dear my lord, by all that charm'd your youth,
Forgive me, though I seem importunate:
O, win your daughter to accept my vows;
For I have lov'd to such a mad excess,
So stor'd up every thought of happiness
In that fond hope, should I prove bankrupt there,
I dare not look to earth or Heaven for comfort.

DURAZZO.
Mentevole, I doubt not of your love;
My daughter too believes it; a feign'd passion
Speaks not your fervent language:—

MENTEVOLE.
A feign'd passion!
Thus hear me swear—

DURAZZO.
Oaths are unnecessary.
My tongue has not been niggard of your praise;
I've tried entreaties too. A harsh command,
Heard with repugnancy, that she should love,
Because her anxious father deems it meet,
Or you would have it so, might change at once
The indifference you complain of to aversion.
Thus the calm lake that slept at peace before,
Turns a strong tide, and sets against your wishes.

MENTEVOLE.
O, the degrees, my lord, are infinite,
Between a harsh command, and such persuasion
As every day the fondest parents use,
In tender strife with a coy maid's reluctance.
Were I to plead as a feed advocate,
Even for a scanty rood of barren earth,
I should account me faithless to my charge,
My rhetorick o'erpriz'd at one poor ducat,
Did I neglect a gloss, or argument,
Might sway the unwilling judge to my decision.

DURAZZO.
Instruct me to speed better. I shall thank you.

MENTEVOLE.
My words, my action, should have life and grace;
I'd probe his reason, try his every humour,
Wind to his inmost soul, grow to his eye,
Watch where impression stole upon his sense;
There ply my strength, where most I found him weak,
Nor cease to urge till I had conquer'd him.

DURAZZO.
Passion thus blindfold sees no obstacle.
Young man, young man, be calm a while, and hear me.

MENTEVOLE.
Yet tell me not, my suit is desperate;
Sooth, though you cannot heal; and I will listen,
As if I liv'd by every sound you utter'd,
And death and inattention were the same.

DURAZZO.
You knew long since, to see my daughter wedded,
Without a variance 'twixt her choice and mine,
Was my prime wish. Malignant destiny
Marr'd that fair prospect. The assassin's stab
Had almost pierc'd with one pernicious stroke
Two faithful breasts. Anguish unutterable
On her soft frame lay'd such a deadly grasp,
Too long I trembled for her life and reason.

MENTEVOLE.
Spare me, my lord, O spare me the remembrance;
It harrows me too deeply.

DURAZZO.
Can you question,
I wish to see her unavailing sorrow
Chang'd to gay festivals, and bridal joy?
Or think you, that supinely I can view
(Thus childless, but in her,) my house's honours,
My large estates, sunk in a virgin's tomb,
Or scatter'd 'mongst remote and thankless kindred,
When, by alliance with your well-match'd love,
Such near and natural heirs may spring to bless me?

MENTEVOLE.
Why, grant it all, yet how have I prevail'd?
My presence she endures, for you desir'd it;
Yet, if the only theme can touch me nearly,
But trembles from my tongue, her cheek turns pale;
Her blood runs back, as mustering to her heart,
To fortify the access more strong against me.
I pity him, who thinks he has known distress,
And never felt the pang of hopeless love:
The consummation of all other ills
Is light and trivial to that misery.

DURAZZO.
Time may do much, nor shall my aid be wanting.
Urge me no more, nor doubt me. Your kind sister,
Olympia, the companion she holds dear,
May unobserv'd watch every soft approach,
And steal a lover's image on her fancy.
But lo, she comes. Farewel! I go to serve you.
[Exit Durazzo.

SCENE V.

Mentevole,
alone.
He goes to serve me! Let his feeble breath
Turn ice to fire, wake in her frozen bosom
Such hot consuming flames as I feel here!
O, I could sluice my veins, mangle this form,
This common form, that wants the power to move her.

SCENE VI.

To him Olympia.
[Mentevole.]
Tell me, Olympia, are not women woo'd
By constancy, and deep-protested oaths?
By living on their smiles, by nice attentions?
By yielding up our reason to their humours?
By adoration of their beauty's power?
By sighs, and tears, by flattery, kneeling, fawning?
Tell me how many ways a manly mind
Must be debas'd, to win a lady's smile?

OLYMPIA.
That which by baseness only can be gain'd,
Were better undesir'd. But say, good brother,
Why do you question with such angry haste,
And what strange fury ruffles all your mien?
Give me your hand: it burns. You are not well.
Your mind unquiet fevers thus your blood.

MENTEVOLE.
No, no: a woman's coldness. Your fair friend,—
Teach her to smile, and my distemper dies.

OLYMPIA.
She has no sense of joy: that beauteous flower
Bows its sweet head o'er Claudio's bloody grave.

MENTEVOLE.
Must that eternal sound grate on me still!
Hast thou been faithful to me? Hast thou told her,
How thou hast seen these lids, even at her name,
Swell with unbidden tides of melting fondness?
Whole nights how I have fill'd thy patient ear,
And she my only theme? How many times,
When chance has given her beauties to my sight,
Thou hast beheld me, trembling, try to speak,
And gaze away my meaning?

OLYMPIA.
Nay, my lord,
Endeavours true as mine disdain suspicion:
And let me say, if she should ne'er consent,—

MENTEVOLE.
How's that? take heed! if she shou'd ne'er consent?
Put not my life on chilling supposition;
Make it the doubt, Olympia, of a moment,
And though thou art my sister, and a dear one,
By heaven, I almost think that I shall hate thee:
For here I swear, deeply and calmly swear it,
The hour which sees me desperate of her love,
Shall be my last.

OLYMPIA.
For shame! be more a man.

MENTEVOLE.
By the great power which gave me sense and being,
I'll wrest from fate my folly's chastisement,
And this right hand shall end me.

OLYMPIA.
Oh! how shocking,
To hear with what devout impiety,
Thou dar'st call heaven the witness of an oath,
Outrageous to its own bless'd providence!

MENTEVOLE.
Well, be it as it may, I have sworn it.
Knows she that young Marcellus is arriv'd?

OLYMPIA.
Yes; and the pleasing tidings for a moment
Dispell'd the cloud that dim'd her beauteous eyes.
Instant she beg'd me, and with warmth unusual,
To bear her greetings to his mother Fulvia;
I now was on my way.

MENTEVOLE.
Then, bear thy message;
Go, be the agent to destroy thy brother.
This compliment, I know, is but the prelude,
To invite a second Claudio, in Marcellus.

OLYMPIA.
If peace be worth a wish, and love be such
In every other bosom, as in thine,
Let the short story on my grave-stone tell,
“Nor loving, nor belov'd, Olympia died.”

MENTEVOLE.
You never wish'd more wisely: but forgive me;
Pardon my infirmity, 'tis too like madness.

OLYMPIA.
'Tis worse, for madmen have their intervals;
Thine's an eternal rage.

[going.
MENTEVOLE.
Go not in anger:
Return; I will be calm; return, Olympia.
Thus on my knee let me entreat you hear me.

[offering to kneel.
OLYMPIA.
'Pray, rise. We may be seen. What is't? go on.

MENTEVOLE.
I have a never-failing instinct here,
Which prompts me what to dread. This young Marcellus,—

OLYMPIA.
Well, what of him?

MENTEVOLE.
I know, will see her shortly.
Crowd all thy faculties into thine eye;
Read his reception keenly; mark him too;
And give me note of every circumstance:
Their words, their looks, let not a glance escape thee.
Promise me so, and from this hour, Olympia,
Thy prudence shall be my sole counsellor:
Though you enjoin me to be blind and mute,
I'll bear it patient as the tutor'd child,
Whose fond instructor smiles, and teaches him.

OLYMPIA.
Keep these conditions, and command my service.
I linger here too long.—Remember patience.
[Exit Olympia.

SCENE VII.

Mentevole,
alone.
And what more likely? He is Claudio's brother;
Noble as he, and deck'd too with the plume
Of brave adventure in the Candian war;
Younger, and not less comely. She may call it
(As women make shrewd logick for their likings)
Truth to the memory of her former vows,
To embrace the living brother for the dead;
And so find faith in her inconstancy.
I know not why, my genius shrinks at him:
The very fear craves vengeance, like a wrong.
Beware, gay stripling! no degenerate awe
Of what may be, can check my firy course:
She must be mine, and shall be. For the means,
Or good or ill, necessity must shape them.