PICININO

Good heaven! Is this to ease misfortune, or increase it? If Passion could whine out felicity, Or plenteous tears could drown unhappiness, I have eyes too, and they contain their showers, Nor would I ere be niggard of a Grief. But tears being only tears, and easy de Of childish eyes, and all the rest of Grief Commanding smiles, more then Compassion, I thank my Genius I am resolute To laugh at Fortune when she is most angry You may, good Fountain, y , drop on, to so, If so much moisture will revive thy cheeks While I'll be young with laughter. I am he That fears a sorrow, more then misery. No, what I And do they whisper that How strange Is poison strange in Italy why, know, As Princes live above the vulgar, so Their death has a Prerogative: mean men May dream away their time to fourscore years, And when their rotten joints drop to their dust Only some trivial infirmity, A Pal j, or and Aguebeares the blame: But'tis not State for Princes to be old, And yet they must not be supposed to die By the respectless treason of disease, But by some strange unheard of accident That Fate did never dream of: but no more, You know Vitellio, and the height of grace Sforza has showed him it's suspicious When wisdom flatters villainy: then come, Let us be private, and discourse some treason. Oh the grand favourite, Sanseverin, A most full bubble, valiant vanity: That in high terms can swear down fortresses, Blow away Armies with a powerful breath, And spoil the enemy before he sees him: But when he comes to Actium, lie as still, As in the tale, that lumpish King of Frogs, Which Jove did give them in his merriment. Were tilting valour, I never knew a man Of larger worth: could he but break the ranks Of enemies aswell as he does spears, Milan never saw a braver General. But there's his brother too. ('Tis wonder we can know so much of him) He that can found the depth of that sly brain Has a large plummet, trust me Julian, And hundred Lawyers make up that one head, And scarcely too: quick Proteus to him, To this Caiazzo was and Idiot, A plain flat Idiot, I tell thee man, Meander never knew so many windings If, as they say, and Aemulation Is bred by likeness, do wonder much How Sforza is induced to employ him. Who has more Devil in him, then himself. Tricks, Juliano, Statists call them Arts, Not to be fado ed by a vulgar reach: But though I want the villainy to know, Yet I have so much spleen to laugh at them; And take a comfort in this plainer sense: No subtlety can cozen Providence. D'yee doubt? Make you a question of the name of it? Why call it as it is, plain flattery. I have not, Juliano, but what then? Thou makest me laugh at thy found question: What? are not Princes men of the same mould, Of the same passion with inferiors? Do not they fear, desire, and hate (as we) And shall we only hinder them from love? Cobblers may have their friends, and why not Kings? Because th'are higher then the rest of men, Shall they be therefore worse? and therefore want The Benefits, because they have the Rule? Oh hard condition of Majesty! The former accusation of Kings Has been their cruelty, that they did hate The people they should govern: Oh hard plighted! Oh strange perverseness! shall their love at length, Their friendship be imputed as their fault? Would Heaven our Sforza had no worse a crime. As if that Valour were the only praise, And none were to be loved, but they that fight: Where were we then? what would become of us? Thou thinkest it Paradox, but 'tis most true, A Soldier is the greatest enemy, Of whom the Commonwealth can be afraid: Prefer you which you please; yet unto them Which are the sole Physicians of State, Who with the teeming of a pregnant brain, Search the diseases and the remedies, Valour is nothing but a desperate vice, And there's no safety, but in cowardice. What cannot be believed, cannot be feared. But who assists us in this dreadful time? And we have too much—I said nothing, did I? I did not speak against the State I hope? Nor said that we had too much patience? I must confess and anger though not grief: Oh how I love to fit me to mischance And when that has no reason, then I'm and. Why should our Milan blood stain the french swords Unto a glory? Sforza does offend, Deny's the heavenly powers, or names them then, When he does dare them with bold perjury, Loads his black soul with murder of a man That could have made his execution, justice. This Sforza does, but what is this to me? Why shall this throat be cut for his? why thine? Why shall our Countries ruin fill his penance? The heavens do know no mean but either wast Their benefits on dull ingratitude Or throw away their thunder, so it hit So it not fail, they care not whom it strike, Whither the guilty, or the innocent. Well Julian, I me sorry for my grief, And so persuade thee to that holy truth. I now could rave against my self, not heaven, But 'tis as fruitless, as to wish good luck: Then let the French press upon victory, Let them amaze the Air with stranger fire, Raised by our Cities flaming Funerals. Swell they the Poe with blood, act over, what ere Has been the brag of royal murderers, Yet our defence is here: Fortune may fail But our true souls shall never, we may loose And aged life, but not Eternity: And with this strength the field must needs be ours: Who do not fear, do Beatrice the Conquerors. This is the sum, I can but be Like this. After the prouder threatening of the French, After the sure impression of Diseases I can but be Like this: then let me think What lose I have when I am made Like this: This fears no French: a peace of ordinance Can break, but not astonish this, no force Can draw a tear, no not a sighs from hence: And can it be a lose to be Like this? Oh Death! why art thou feared? why do we think 'Tis such a horrid terror Not to Be? Why, not to be, is, not to be a wretch, Why, not to be, is, to be Like the heavens, Not to be subject to the power of Fate: Oh there's no happiness but not to be. to the Watch. But thou discloser of the stealth of Time, Let me inquire how much is worn away Of this sad hour: the half? Oh speedy time! That makest us feel, ere we can think of Age, Ere we can take and order for the Grave. I only look how many minutes hence M and expires. This Watch does teach real Philosophy, There is no tutor to this active brass: What is a Kingdom, but a larger watch? Wound up by Fate unto some scores of years, And then it falls: good Juliano list, Hark how it beats, how strongly, and how fast, Beyond the motion of a nimble pulse: Who would not think this were a lasting noise? And yet it ends: after some date of hours The watch will be as silent as the head. Oh 'tis our folly, folly, my deer friend, Because we see th'actiuity of States, To flatter them with false Eternity: Why longer then the dweller lasts the house? Why should the world be always, and not man? Sure kingdoms are as mortal as their Kings, And stay but longer for their perjod. But on what strength does Sforza still subsist Against so powerful foes? Has his gross brain not learned the danger yet Of bringing strangers into Italy? He called the French to Naples, who have now Found Milan too: Oh what's the difference Betwixt a mercenary and a foe? But that we kill one for his outrages, And hire the other? Juliano, I May feel misfortune, but will never buy. These are they That if a happy messenger should come With Sforza is victory, would pretend at least To be overcome with joy: the gorgeous walls Should shine with painted triumphs, and the French Should be again vanquished in pageant. But if his fortune yield to the French force, What obloquy's will be enough for him? Disgrace will then be wit, and any brain Will venture on a Libel. Why, then and end to tears, Let's scorn the sorrow, which we owe to hell: Now learn we the prodigious effects Of wise Ambition: for it easy justice To ruin foolish usurpation, Heaven needs not stickle in't: but when those men Who are as accurate, as bade, who can So shape their vice into a virtuous mould, That we repine at the accusers more, Then at the guilty: when that these men fallen, Who then will call that wise, which he sees bade? Such wisdom made, and ruined him: then you That dazzle with your Majesty, and fit Too near to thunder, and not fear it, know Sforza, and learn a wise contempt of wisdom, Frailty attends your best, and strongest trick, And there's no fool unto the Politic. FOrtune is merry, and the heaven disposed To play with me, I am turned Favourite. Me thinks my hairs ashamed of their white hue Should blush to youth: Oh how I could look big, Take Giant strides, dote on my lovely self, And talk as silly as any Lord. To see the prettiness of Actium, Of State-employment: Sforza is to be crowned, And I must win the popular suffrages. Good Heavens! was ever such a merry load Imposed on Man: some cry the times are ill, Others could wish them better, and a third Knows how to make all well, but tells not how, And, cause that he is silent, would be wise. But in conclusion I do find them ready (On supposition of no more expense, And that their voice is sued for, not their purse) To give a lusty acclamation. Why, thou perpetual Murmurer, thou sea Tossed with eternal tempest, thou dark sky With everlasting clouds, thou—any thing, Whom, being angry I can call no more: Think better of those acts thou canst not mend. Will Sforza be less bade, because thou whinest? Or dost thou think thy pitiful complaints Can beg a goodness of Ascanio? I never knew that mighty use of tears, That they could wash away another's fault: When thou shalt want a tear for a fit grief, Sanseverin will be a Coward still: And when thy groans are turned to thy last gasp, Caiazzo will not be less treacherous. No matter for their wisdom, were they good: Oh why are such termed Innocents? but friend, What is our aim? a flight our age denies, And whither should we fly, but to the graven? Oh I have so much people in me too, Enter Mal uezzo. That I could wish thy company. Noble Maluezzo, is there any hope? Now I remember what I dreamt last night, (If it be safe to call a vision, Dream,) I saw our Sforza in so pale a shape, That Envy never was described more won, Who frighted me with this relation. My Juliano, yes; 'tis in each voice That some persuasion flattering Ferdinand, That the French journey was but a report, Made him revoke Alphonso, his brave son, Who with and Army had endangered us: For the wise old man fearing, a deep fear Might arm and enemy, else too weak for him, And make us hasten the French war, gave over His war with us: but when he understands That all this qui to does not purchase peace, The cozened Prince seeks the sure peace of death, And leaves his ruin to destroy his son. IT cannot be, good Julian, no more: I do not love these over-earnest dreams. The French invade us? when their jolly King With limber slaves does only mock a war, Which Like so many reeds against a stone Punish their own attempt with their own r Breaking themselves, no a mors: when we The Court is lost in Ma kes, reality Is so far fled since the last victory, That we may think the Court it self a ma ke Eternal Music, revels without end Tire the too-much delighted soldier, Whose arms have now forgotten their ancient use, His spirits only active in his heals, And canst thou think theyle dance to Italy?