The White Devil

Act II


Enter Francisco de Medicis, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor

Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived?

Isab. Not yet, sir.

Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind;

If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's,

I would set fire on 't were 't but to destroy

The polecats that haunt to it - My sweet cousin!

Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse,

And armour.

Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin.

Marcello, see it fitted.

Marc. My lord, the duke is here.

Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen.

Isab. I do beseech you,

Entreat him mildly, let not your rough tongue

Set us at louder variance; all my wrongs

Are freely pardon'd; and I do not doubt,

As men to try the precious unicorn's horn

Make of the powder a preservative circle,

And in it put a spider, so these arms

Shall charm his poison, force it to obeying,

And keep him chaste from an infected straying.

Fran. I wish it may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineo

enter.] Void the chamber.

You are welcome; will you sit? - I pray, my lord,

Be you my orator, my heart 's too full;

I 'll second you anon.

Mont. Ere I begin,

Let me entreat your grace forgo all passion,

Which may be raised by my free discourse.

Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed.

Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends,

That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world

With a free scepter in your able hand,

And having to th' use of nature well applied

High gifts of learning, should in your prime age

Neglect your awful throne for the soft down

Of an insatiate bed. O my lord,

The drunkard after all his lavish cups

Is dry, and then is sober; so at length,

When you awake from this lascivious dream,

Repentance then will follow, like the sting

Plac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes

When fortune blasteth but a petty flower

Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth

But one pearl from their scepter; but alas!

When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame,

All princely titles perish with their name.

Brach. You have said, my lord - -

Mont. Enough to give you taste

How far I am from flattering your greatness.

Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you?

Do not like young hawks fetch a course about;

Your game flies fair, and for you.

Fran. Do not fear it:

I 'll answer you in your own hawking phrase.

Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun

Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease,

Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.

You know Vittoria?

Brach. Yes.

Fran. You shift your shirt there,

When you retire from tennis?

Brach. Happily.

Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune,

Yet she wears cloth of tissue.

Brach. What of this?

Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal,

As part of her confession at next shrift,

And know from whence it sails?

Fran. She is your strumpet - -

Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath,

And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine,

All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers,

Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,

Durst not supplant her.

Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder.

Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given

Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast

In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee

But one.

Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then.

Fran. True:

Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution,

Shall ne'er do so by thee.

Brach. Spit thy poison.

Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip

At her own girdle. Look to 't, for our anger

Is making thunderbolts.

Brach. Thunder! in faith,

They are but crackers.

Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon.

Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds,

And gunpowder in thy nostrils.

Fran. Better that,

Than change perfumes for plasters.

Brach. Pity on thee!

'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd,

Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee,

Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.

Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further

Without a milder limit.

Fran. Willingly.

Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait

A lion thus?

Mont. My lord!

Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir.

Fran. We send unto the duke for conference

'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke

Is not at home: we come ourself in person;

Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear

When Tiber to each prowling passenger

Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord -

'Bout moulting time I mean - we shall be certain

To find you sure enough, and speak with you.

Brach. Ha!

Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle.

But to express the sonnet by natural reason,

[Enter Giovanni.

When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.

Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion

Shall end the difference between you both;

Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords,

What hopes you store in him; this is a casket

For both your crowns, and should be held like dear.

Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know

It is a more direct and even way,

To train to virtue those of princely blood,

By examples than by precepts: if by examples,

Whom should he rather strive to imitate

Than his own father? be his pattern then,

Leave him for a stock of virtue that may last,

Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast.

Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier?

Giov. Give me a pike.

Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin?

Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord,

Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me,

Might not a child of good discretion

Be leader to an army?

Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince

Of good discretion might.

Giov. Say you so?

Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general

Should not endanger his own person oft;

So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback,

Like a Danske drummer, - Oh, 'tis excellent! -

He need not fight! methinks his horse as well

Might lead an army for him. If I live,

I 'll charge the French foe in the very front

Of all my troops, the foremost man.

Fran. What! what!

Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow,

But bid them follow me.

Brach. Forward lapwing!

He flies with the shell on 's head.

Fran. Pretty cousin!

Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war,

All prisoners that I take, I will set free,

Without their ransom.

Fran. Ha! without their ransom!

How then will you reward your soldiers,

That took those prisoners for you?

Giov. Thus, my lord:

I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widows

That falls that year.

Fran. Why then, the next year following,

You 'll have no men to go with you to war.

Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war,

And then the men will follow.

Mont. Witty prince!

Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man,

Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast.

Come, you and I are friends.

Brach. Most wishedly:

Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set,

Knit the more strongly.

Fran. Call Camillo hither. -

You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count Lodowick

Is turn'd a pirate?

Brach. Yes.

Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess.

We now will leave you, and expect from you

Nothing but kind entreaty.

Brach. You have charm'd me.

[Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni.

Enter Isabella

You are in health, we see.

Isab. And above health,

To see my lord well.

Brach. So: I wonder much

What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome.

Isab. Devotion, my lord.

Brach. Devotion!

Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin?

Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think

The oftener that we cast our reckonings up,

Our sleep will be the sounder.

Brach. Take your chamber.

Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry!

Doth not my absence from you, now two months,

Merit one kiss?

Brach. I do not use to kiss:

If that will dispossess your jealousy,

I 'll swear it to you.

Isab. O, my loved lord,

I do not come to chide: my jealousy!

I am to learn what that Italian means.

You are as welcome to these longing arms,

As I to you a virgin.

Brach. Oh, your breath!

Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic,

The plague is in them!

Isab. You have oft, for these two lips,

Neglected cassia, or the natural sweets

Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd.

My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns

Show in a helmet lovely; but on me,

In such a peaceful interview, methinks

They are too roughly knit.

Brach. O dissemblance!

Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt

The trick of impudent baseness to complain

Unto your kindred?

Isab. Never, my dear lord.

Brach. Must I be hunted out? or was 't your trick

To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome,

That must supply our discontinuance?

Isab. Pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death

Turn to your ancient pity, though not love.

Brach. Because your brother is the corpulent duke,

That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortly

Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis,

But it shall rest 'pon record! I scorn him

Like a shav'd Polack: all his reverend wit

Lies in his wardrobe; he 's a discreet fellow,

When he 's made up in his robes of state.

Your brother, the great duke, because h' 'as galleys,

And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat,

(Now all the hellish furies take his soul!)

First made this match: accursed be the priest

That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue!

Isab. Oh, too, too far you have curs'd!

Brach. Your hand I 'll kiss;

This is the latest ceremony of my love.

Henceforth I 'll never lie with thee; by this,

This wedding-ring, I 'll ne'er more lie with thee!

And this divorce shall be as truly kept,

As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well:

Our sleeps are sever'd.

Isab. Forbid it the sweet union

Of all things blessed! why, the saints in heaven

Will knit their brows at that.

Brach. Let not thy love

Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow

Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied

With my repentance: let thy brother rage

Beyond a horrid tempest, or sea-fight,

My vow is fixed.

Isab. O, my winding-sheet!

Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord,

Let me hear once more, what I would not hear:


Brach. Never.

Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy,

As I upon a woeful widow'd bed

Shall pray for you, if not to turn your eyes

Upon your wretched wife and hopeful son,

Yet that in time you 'll fix them upon heaven!

Brach. No more; go, go, complain to the great duke.

Isab. No, my dear lord; you shall have present witness

How I 'll work peace between you. I will make

Myself the author of your cursed vow;

I have some cause to do it, you have none.

Conceal it, I beseech you, for the weal

Of both your dukedoms, that you wrought the means

Of such a separation: let the fault

Remain with my supposed jealousy,

And think with what a piteous and rent heart

I shall perform this sad ensuing part.

Enter Francisco, Flamineo, Monticelso, and Camillo

Brach. Well, take your course. - My honourable brother!

Fran. Sister! - This is not well, my lord. - Why, sister! - She merits not

this welcome.

Brach. Welcome, say!

She hath given a sharp welcome.

Fran. Are you foolish?

Come, dry your tears: is this a modest course

To better what is naught, to rail and weep?

Grow to a reconcilement, or, by heaven,

I 'll ne'er more deal between you.

Isab. Sir, you shall not;

No, though Vittoria, upon that condition,

Would become honest.

Fran. Was your husband loud

Since we departed?

Isab. By my life, sir, no,

I swear by that I do not care to lose.

Are all these ruins of my former beauty

Laid out for a whore's triumph?

Fran. Do you hear?

Look upon other women, with what patience

They suffer these slight wrongs, and with what justice

They study to requite them: take that course.

Isab. O that I were a man, or that I had power

To execute my apprehended wishes!

I would whip some with scorpions.

Fran. What! turn'd fury!

Isab. To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her die

Some twenty months a-dying; to cut off

Her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth;

Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophies

Of my just anger! Hell, to my affliction,

Is mere snow-water. By your favour, sir; -

Brother, draw near, and my lord cardinal; -

Sir, let me borrow of you but one kiss;

Henceforth I 'll never lie with you, by this,

This wedding-ring.

Fran. How, ne'er more lie with him!

Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly kept

As if in thronged court a thousand ears

Had heard it, and a thousand lawyers' hands

Sealed to the separation.

Brach. Ne'er lie with me!

Isab. Let not my former dotage

Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow

Shall never on my soul be satisfied

With my repentance: manet alta mente repostum.

Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad,

And jealous woman.

Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking.

Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn,

You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee,

For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow

And take your chamber.

Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua;

I will not stay a minute.

Mont. Oh, good madam!

Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour;

Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach,

And then she 'll turn in post.

Fran. To see her come

To my lord for a dispensation

Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter.

Isab. 'Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break:

Those are the killing griefs, which dare not speak.' [Exit.

Marc. Camillo's come, my lord.

Enter Camillo

Fran. Where 's the commission?

Marc. 'Tis here.

Fran. Give me the signet.

Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their

whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads,

stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which

are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart,

shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning.

Enter Doctor

Brach. About the murder?

Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy.

Here 's another property too.

Brach. Oh, the doctor!

Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been

lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an

execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.

Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and

made pay all the colorable execution.

Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more

ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was

once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to

have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have

poisoned all Dublin.

Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire!

Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord.

Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot,

like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee,

toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will

fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!

Brach. No more. - I must employ thee, honest doctor:

You must to Padua, and by the way,

Use some of your skill for us.

Doctor. Sir, I shall.

Brach. But for Camillo?

Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain,

Men shall suppose him by 's own engine slain.

But for your duchess' death - -

Doctor. I 'll make her sure.

Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.

Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, they

rise as gallows in the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders.

[Exeunt. Monticelso, Camillo, and Francisco come forward.

Mont. Here is an emblem, nephew, pray peruse it:

'Twas thrown in at your window.

Cam. At my window!

Here is a stag, my lord, hath shed his horns,

And, for the loss of them, the poor beast weeps:

The word, Inopem me copia fecit.

Mont. That is,

Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns.

Cam. What should this mean?

Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given out

You are a cuckold.

Cam. Is it given out so?

I had rather such reports as that, my lord,

Should keep within doors.

Fran. Have you any children?

Cam. None, my lord.

Fran. You are the happier:

I 'll tell you a tale.

Cam. Pray, my lord.

Fran. An old tale.

Upon a time Phoebus, the god of light,

Or him we call the sun, would need to be married:

The gods gave their consent, and Mercury

Was sent to voice it to the general world.

But what a piteous cry there straight arose

Amongst smiths and felt-makers, brewers and cooks,

Reapers and butter-women, amongst fishmongers,

And thousand other trades, which are annoyed

By his excessive heat! 'twas lamentable.

They came to Jupiter all in a sweat,

And do forbid the banns. A great fat cook

Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove

That Phoebus might be gelded; for if now,

When there was but one sun, so many men

Were like to perish by his violent heat,

What should they do if he were married,

And should beget more, and those children

Make fireworks like their father? So say I;

Only I apply it to your wife;

Her issue, should not providence prevent it,

Would make both nature, time, and man repent it.

Mont. Look you, cousin,

Go, change the air for shame; see if your absence

Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello

Is chosen with you joint commissioner,

For the relieving our Italian coast

From pirates.

Marc. I am much honour'd in 't.

Cam. But, sir,

Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sprouted

Greater than those are shed.

Mont. Do not fear it;

I 'll be your ranger.

Cam. You must watch i' th' nights;

Then 's the most danger.

Fran. Farewell, good Marcello:

All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish

Bring you a-shipboard.

Cam. Were I not best, now I am turn'd soldier,

Ere that I leave my wife, sell all she hath,

And then take leave of her?

Mont. I expect good from you,

Your parting is so merry.

Cam. Merry, my lord! a' th' captain's humour right,

I am resolved to be drunk this night. [Exeunt.

Fran. So, 'twas well fitted; now shall we discern

How his wish'd absence will give violent way

To Duke Brachiano's lust.

Mont. Why, that was it;

To what scorn'd purpose else should we make choice

Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides,

Count Lodowick, which was rumour'd for a pirate,

Is now in Padua.

Fran. Is 't true?

Mont. Most certain.

I have letters from him, which are suppliant

To work his quick repeal from banishment:

He means to address himself for pension

Unto our sister duchess.

Fran. Oh, 'twas well!

We shall not want his absence past six days:

I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run

Into notorious scandal; for there 's naught

In such cursed dotage, to repair his name,

Only the deep sense of some deathless shame.

Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable

To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer,

For my revenge I 'd stake a brother's life,

That being wrong'd, durst not avenge himself.

Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet.

Mont. Curse of greatness!

Sure he 'll not leave her?

Fran. There 's small pity in 't:

Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather,

Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt.


Enter Brachiano, with one in the habit of a conjurer

Brach. Now, sir, I claim your promise: 'tis dead midnight,

The time prefix'd to show me by your art,

How the intended murder of Camillo,

And our loath'd duchess, grow to action.

Conj. You have won me by your bounty to a deed

I do not often practise. Some there are,

Which by sophistic tricks, aspire that name

Which I would gladly lose, of necromancer;

As some that use to juggle upon cards,

Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat;

Others that raise up their confederate spirits

'Bout windmills, and endanger their own necks

For making of a squib; and some there are

Will keep a curtal to show juggling tricks,

And give out 'tis a spirit; besides these,

Such a whole ream of almanac-makers, figure-flingers,

Fellows, indeed that only live by stealth,

Since they do merely lie about stol'n goods,

They 'd make men think the devil were fast and loose,

With speaking fustian Latin. Pray, sit down;

Put on this nightcap, sir, 'tis charmed; and now

I 'll show you, by my strong commanding art,

The circumstance that breaks your duchess' heart.

A Dumb Show

Enter suspiciously Julio and Christophero: they draw a curtain where

Brachiano's picture is; they put on spectacles of glass, which cover

their eyes and noses, and then burn perfumes before the picture, and

wash the lips of the picture; that done, quenching the fire, and

putting off their spectacles, they depart laughing.

Enter Isabella in her night-gown, as to bedward, with lights, after her,

Count Lodovico, Giovanni, Guidantonio, and others waiting on her: she

kneels down as to prayers, then draws the curtain of the picture, does

three reverences to it, and kisses it thrice; she faints, and will not

suffer them to come near it; dies; sorrow expressed in Giovanni, and in

Count Lodovico. She is conveyed out solemnly.

Brach. Excellent! then she 's dead.

Conj. She 's poisoned

By the fumed picture. 'Twas her custom nightly,

Before she went to bed, to go and visit

Your picture, and to feed her eyes and lips

On the dead shadow: Doctor Julio,

Observing this, infects it with an oil,

And other poison'd stuff, which presently

Did suffocate her spirits.

Brach. Methought I saw

Count Lodowick there.

Conj. He was; and by my art

I find he did most passionately dote

Upon your duchess. Now turn another way,

And view Camillo's far more politic fate.

Strike louder, music, from this charmed ground,

To yield, as fits the act, a tragic sound!

The Second Dumb Show

Enter Flamineo, Marcello, Camillo, with four more as captains: they drink

healths, and dance; a vaulting horse is brought into the room; Marcello

and two more whispered out of the room, while Flamineo and Camillo

strip themselves into their shirts, as to vault; compliment who shall

begin; as Camillo is about to vault, Flamineo pitcheth him upon his

neck, and, with the help of the rest, writhes his neck about; seems to

see if it be broke, and lays him folded double, as 'twere under the

horse; makes show to call for help; Marcello comes in, laments; sends

for the cardinal and duke, who comes forth with armed men; wonders at

the act; commands the body to be carried home; apprehends Flamineo,

Marcello, and the rest, and go, as 'twere, to apprehend Vittoria.

Brach. 'Twas quaintly done; but yet each circumstance

I taste not fully.

Conj. Oh, 'twas most apparent!

You saw them enter, charg'd with their deep healths

To their boon voyage; and, to second that,

Flamineo calls to have a vaulting horse

Maintain their sport; the virtuous Marcello

Is innocently plotted forth the room;

Whilst your eye saw the rest, and can inform you

The engine of all.

Brach. It seems Marcello and Flamineo

Are both committed.

Conj. Yes, you saw them guarded;

And now they are come with purpose to apprehend

Your mistress, fair Vittoria. We are now

Beneath her roof: 'twere fit we instantly

Make out by some back postern.

Brach. Noble friend,

You bind me ever to you: this shall stand

As the firm seal annexed to my hand;

It shall enforce a payment. [Exit Brachiano.

Conj. Sir, I thank you.

Both flowers and weeds spring, when the sun is warm,

And great men do great good, or else great harm.