University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

—A Square in Constantinople.
Philip
alone.
'Tis very strange that all men face me out,
That all my knowledge fails to enforce awe.
Speak for me, earthquakes, gape eternally!
And let no sun from this day rise to bathe
With light your ghastly lips!—Here end my hopes.
Montferrat has reproach'd me;—fail'd besides.
Baldwin abus'd me when I sought a place
Beneath his royalty, 'cause of my whispering.
How brutish not to know that my poor plan
To aid Montferrat was as gross as night!
But thus I overleap all Philip's schemes,
Chasing these vain propensities:—Events
Pass o'er me as a shadow, nor behind
Leave lesson or remembrance. I must thank
My own bright star if this vindictive Flanders
Send not a whipping after his reproach.
And then my enemy;—and he too must
Assert his pride! O fool! for I have been
Deceiv'd with bubbles growing on my tree,
A crop of empty beauty.—Whilst I climb'd,
That man has come, and shaken in my eyes
The beauteous vapour, and pass'd laughing on.
But I'll overtake him! Here I stand this night,
My face toward where I think wild Thracia lies:
I'll be a wanderer in her mountains soon,
Where leagues are swallow'd up; travelling with ravens
That hang their hoarse wings on the icy winds,
O'er the snow-glist'ring hills at eve, until
I find his grave beneath the oak-tree roots.
But, by the dark grave and Antonio there;—
And by my pale face, and my barefoot hopes,—
How shall I strike him! and this very night
Shake his full cups.—Up in these darksome skies
Rattle loud winds.—In half an hour the tempest
Will yell through the shudd'ring heavens.—These elements!
Could I a moment wield, or catch three sparks
Of Heaven's strong lightning, I would give a job
To the epitaph-writer ere this night pass'd by.—
I'll go this minute—down his throat, perforce,
Cram poisons thick:—and let Death wipe his beard.
It shall go barely, if this Baldwin too
Share not my night cakes. O could I stir them up,
And make their faces ominous to each other!
Sit closely, Night, beneath thy dark witch-hood,
That I may meditate, and do my work.—
I know not where to begin;—It must be desp'rate.

Enter Pedro.
Ped.
It grows most awfully dark, I know not well
How I may find our Philip out to night.
I'm told he trudges with this Flanders now.

Phil.
(Coming forward.)
'Tis false as Pedro who forgot his promise,
To feed me with revenge.

Ped.
That tongue has sav'd me
Uncertain searching. What if I reward
The past and present?

Phil.
'Tis scarcely within
The outer-doors of possibility.

Ped.
Murtzoufle shall, ere long, be Emp'ror here,
And I his second: in unearthly things,
My countryman the first.

Phil.
Is that revenge?

Ped.
They come together.

Phil.
Is there sure revenge?

Ped.
As thou'rt Antonio's brother.

Phil.
Say'st thou so?

Ped.
I said revenge; for I will grant thee now,
The power I spoke of is but seen afar.
But thy revenge is in thy power to-night:
To spur thee on;—'tis means to gain the other.

Phil.
Dost strike at Montmorency?

Ped.
At his roots.

Phil.
Shall he fall quickly?

Ped.
Ay, I think most quickly.
But we must hence—follow and hear it all.

Phil.
Think!—only think?—and must I only hear?—

Ped.
Unglove thy hands then, if you wish a job:—
Pause not one moment:—hence, we need thy aid.

Phil.
Whither, thou fiend?

Ped.
This place is dangerous.

Phil.
Shall I follow?

Ped.
On—come my bird!—I have thee now—revenge!

Phil.
Is it good scheme, sweet Pedro?

Ped.
Stay a moment,
And I shall send Antonio's ghost to whip thee!

Phil.
Strew firebrands behind thee, I shall track
Thy steps. I'll put o'er thee a lucky star,
Good youth, until you die, if 'tis well plann'd.

Ped.
Come on, 'tis passing well,—
I think 'twill do:—'tis well, then, boy—most well.

Phil.
I'm after thee—my heart beats thick and full,
Like the first pulse of immortality.

[Exeunt.