ANDRUGIO

More lowering fate? Oh Lucio, choke that breath. Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath frowned, Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend: Her venom's spit. Alas, what country rests, What son, what comfort that she can deprive? Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow? Gapes not my native country for my blood? Lies not my son tombed in the swelling main? And yet more lowering fate? There's nothing left Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio: And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take. Fortune my Fortune's, not my mind shall shake. Wouldst thou have me go unarmed among my foes? Being besieged by passion, entering lists, To combat with despair and mighty grief: My soul beleaguerd with the crushing strength Of sharp impatience. Would Lucio, go unarmed? Come soul, resume the valour of thy brith; My self, my self will dare all opposites: I'll muster forces, and unvanquished power: Cornets of horse shall press th'vngratefull earth; This hollow wombed mass shall inly groan, And murmur to sustain the weight of arms: Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair, Shall hurry on before, and usher us, Whilst trumpets clamour, with a found of death. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms, Why that's and army all invincible. He who hath that, hath a battalion Royal, armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds, Main squares of pikes, millions of harguebush. Oh, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide. Legions of Angels fight upon her side. No, isle not trust the honour of a man: Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness A common water in most Princes Courts: He's in the Chekle-roule: I'll not trust my blood; I know none breathing, but will cog a die For twenty thousand double Pistolets. How goes the time? No sun will shine, where poor Andrugio breathes, My soul grows heavy: boy let's have a song: Weel sing yet, faith, even despite of fate. 'Tis a good boy, & by my troth, well sung. Oh, and thou feltst my grief, I warrant thee, Thou wouldst have strook division to the height; And made the life of music breath: hold boy: why so? For Gods sake call me not Andrugio, That I may soon forget what I have been. For heavens name, name not Antonio; That I may not remember he was mine. Well, ere yond sun set, isle show my self my self, Worthy my blood. I was a Duke; that's all. No matter whither, but from whence we fallen. Come Lucio, lets go eat: what hast thou God? Roots, roots? alas, they are seeded, new cut up. Oh, thou hast wronged Nature, Lucio: But boots not much; thou but pursuest the world, That cuts off virtue, before it comes to growth, Least it should seed, and so overrun her son, Dull purblind error. Give me water, boy. There is no poison in't I hope, they say That lukes in massy plate: and yet the earth Is so infected with a general plague, That he's most wise, that thinks there's no man fool: Right prudent, that esteems no creature joust: Great policy the least things to mistrust. Give me Assay How we mock greatness now! Why man, I never was a Prince till now. 'Tis not the bared pate, the bent knees, Gilded tipstaves, Tyrrian purple, chairs of state, Troops of pide butterflies, that flutter still In greatness summer, that confirm a prince: 'Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes, Shouting and clapping, with confused din; That makes a Prince. No Lucio, he's a king, A true right king, that dares do aught, save wrong, Fears nothing mortal, but to be unjust, Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs Of spongy Sycophants: Who stands unmoved, Despite the justling of opinion: Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng That strive to press his quiet out of him: Who sits upon Jove's footstool, as I do, Adoring, not affecting, majesty: Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king. And of this empire, every man's possessed, That's worth his soul. Name not the Genowaies: that very word Unkings me quite, makes me vile passion slave. Oh, you that made open the glibbery Ice Of vulgar favour, view Andrugio. Was never Prince with more applause confirmed, With louder shouts of triumph launched out Into the surgy main of government: Was never Prince with more despite cast out, Left shipwracked, banished, on more guiltless ground. Oh rotten props of the crazed multitude, How you still double, falter, under the lightest chance That strains your veins. Alas, one battle lost, Your whorish love, your drunken healths, your houts and shouts, Your smooth God save's, and all your devils last That tempts our quiet, to your hell of throngs. Spit on me Lucio, for I am turned slave: Observe how passion domineers over me. I Lucio, having lost a son, a son, A country, house, crown, son. Oh lares, misereri lares. Which shall I first deplore? My son, my son, My deer sweet boy, my deer Antonio. I, echo, I; I mean Antonio. Lives he? Where lies he dead? Where? Dost thou but think? What, dost not know thy self? Upon thy faith to heaven, give thy name. I were not worthy to be called thy father, If I denied my name Andrugio. And dost thou live? Oh, let me kiss thy cheek, And dew thy brow with trickling drops of joy. Now heavens will be done: for I have lived To see my joy, my son Antonio. Give my thy hand; now fortune do thy worst, His blood, that leapt thy spirit in the womb, Thus (in his love) will make his arms thy tomb. Do not expostulate the heavens will: But, Oh, remember to forget thy self: Forget remembrance what thou once hast been. Come, creep with me from out this open air. Even trees have tongues, and will betray our life. I am a raising of our house, my boy: Which fortune will not envy, 'tis so mean, And Like the world (all dirt) there shalt thou rip The inward of thy Fortune's, in mine ears, While I fit weeping, blind with passion tears: Then isle begin, and weel such order keep, That one shall still tell griefs, the other weep. Now, come united force of chapfallen death: Come, power of fretting anguish, leave distress. Oh, thus infoulded, we have breasts of proof, Gainst all the venomed stings of misery. A sodden horror does invade my blood, My sinews tremble, and my panting heart Scuds round about my bosom so go out, Dreading the assailant, horrid passion. Oh, be no tyrant, kill me with one blow. Speak quickly, briefly boy. Son, heat thy blood, be not froze up with grief. Courage, sweet boy, sink not beneath the weight Of crushing mischief. Oh where's thy dauntless heart Thy father's spirit! I renounce thy blood, If thou forsake thy valour. Give me my arms, my armour Lucio. Fortune fears valour, presseth cowardice. Numquam potest non esse. What patience, friend, can ruined Hope's at ̄ worser? Come, let me die Like old Andrugio: Worthy my birth. Oh blood-true-honour'd graves Are far more blessed then base life of slaves. Exeunt. We vow, by the honour of our birth, to recompense any man that brngeth Andrugio's head, with twenty thou sand double Pistolets, and the endearing to our choicest love. Then, here, Piero, is Andrugios head, Royally casked in a helm of steel: Give me thy love, and take it. My dauntless soul Hath that unbounded vigor in his spirits, That it can bear more rank indignity, With less impatience, then thy cankered hate Can sting and venom his untainted worth, With the most viperous found of malice. Strike, Oh, let no glimpse of honour light thy thoughts, If there be any heat of royal breath Creeping in thy veins, Oh stifle it. Be still thy self, bloody and treacherous. Fame not thy house with and admired act Of princely pity. Piero, I am come, To soil thy house with and eternal blot Of savage cruelty; strike, or bid me strike. I pray my death; that thy never dying shame Might live immortal to posterity. Come, be a princely hangman, stop my breath. Oh dread thou shame, no more then I dread death. Sweet precious issue of most honoured blood, Rich hope, ripe virtue, Oh untimely lose. Come hither friend. Pree thee do not weep: Why, I am glad he's dead, he shall not see His father's vanquished, by his enemy. Even in princely honour, nay pree thee speak. How died the wretched boy? I hope he died yet Like my son, i'faith. He died unforced, I trust, and valiantly. Did his hand shake, or his eye look dull, His thoughts reel, fearful when he struck the stroke? And if they did, I'll rend them out the hearse, Rip up his cearecloth, mangle his bleak face; That when he comes to heaven, the powers divine Shall never take notice that he was my son. I'll quite disclaim his birth: nay pree thee speak: And it not hoopt with steel, my breast would break. Villain, 'tis thou hast murdered my son. Thy unrelenting spirit (thou black dog, That tookest no passion of his fatal love) Hath forced him give his life untimely end. Sweet son, sweet son; I can speak no more: My joys passion flows above the shore, And chokes the current of my speech. IS not yond gleam, the shuddering morn that flakes, With silver tinctur, the east vierge of heaven? Away, I have no excellence to please. Pree the observe the custom of the world, That only flatters greatness, States exalts. And please my excellence! Oh Lucio. Thou hast been ever held respected deer, Even precious to Andrugios in most love. Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou givest not faith That I am wretched, Oh read that, read that. EXCELLENT, the joust overthrown, Andrugio took in the Venetian gulf, hath so assured the Geno ways of the justice of his cause, and the hatefulness of his person, that they have banished him and all his family: and, for confirmation of their peace with us, have vowed, that if he, or his son, can be attached, to send us both their heads. We therefore, by force of our united league, forbid you to harbour him, or his blood: but if you apprehend his person, we entreat you to send him, or his head, to us. For we vow by the honour of our blood, to recompense any man that brings his head, with twenty thousand double Pistolets, and the endearing to our choicest love. My thoughts are fixed in contemplation Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal, That eats her children, should not have eyes & ears. Philosophy maintains that Natures' wise, And forms no useless or unperfect thing. Did Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature? For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man, Moulds me up honour; and Like a cunning Dutchma ̄ , Paints me a puppit even with seeming breath, And gives a sot appearance of a soul, Go to, go to; thou liest Philosophy. Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain. Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears? That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints: That when a soul is split, sunk with grief, He might fallen thus, upon the breast of earth; And in her ear, halloo his misery: Exclaiming thus. Oh thou all bearing earth, Which men do gape for, till thou cramst their mouths, And choakst their throats with dust: Oh chaune thy breast, And let me sink into thee. Look who knocks; Andrugio calls. But Oh, she's deaf and blind. A wretch, but lean relief on earth can find. Art thou Antonio?