ANTONIO

DARKNESS is fled: look, infant morn hath drawn Bright silver curtains, about the couch of night: And now Aurora's horse trots azure rings, Breathing fair light about the firmament, Stand, what's that? Blow hence these faplesse jests. I tell you bloods My spirit's heavy, and the juice of life Creeps slowly through my stifned arteries. Last sleep, my sense was steep't in horrid dreams: Three parrs of night were swallowed in the gulf Of ravenous time, when to my slumbering powers, Two meager ghosts made apparition. The on's breast seemed fresh pauncht with bleeding wounds: Whose bubbling gore sprang in frighted eyes. The other ghost assumed my father's shape: Both cried Revenge. At which my trembling joints (Iced quite over with a froz'd cold sweat) Leapt forth the sheets. Three times I gasp't at shades: And thrice, deluded by erroneous sense, I forced my thoughts make stand; when lo, I op't A large bay window, through which the night Struck terror to my soul. The verge of heaven Was ringed with flames, and all the upper vault Thick laced with flakes of fire; in amid whereof A blazing Comet shot his threatening train Just on my face. Viewing these prodigies, I bowed my naked knee, and pierced the star, With and outfacing eye; pronouncing thus; Deus imperat astris. At which, my nose straight bled: Then doubled I my word, so slunk to bed. I pree thee peace. I tell you gentlemen, The frightful shades of night yet shake my brain: My gelli blood's not thawed: the sulphur damps, That flow in winged lightning about my couch, Yet stick within my sense, my soul is great, In expectation of dire prodigies. Here, who calls? here stands Antonio. Dear mother. Madam, last night I kissed his princely hand, And took a treasured blessing from his lips: Oh mother, you arrive in Jubilee, And firm atonement of all boisterous rage: Pleasure, united love, protested faith, Guard my loved father, as sworn Pensioners: The Dukes are leagued in firmest bound of love, And you arrive even in the Solsticie, And highest point of sunshine happiness. Hark Madam, how you Cornet ierketh up His strained shrill accents, in the capering air; As proud to summon up my bright cheeked love. Now, mother, open wide expectation: Let lose your amplest sense, to entertain Th'impression of and object of such worth, That life's too poor to I tell thee prince, that presence straight appears, Of which thou canst not form Hyperboles, The trophy of triumphing excellence: The heart of beauty, Mellida appears. See, look, the curtain stirs, shine nature's pride, Loves vital spirit, deer Antonio's bride. What villain bloods the window of my love? What slave hath hung you gory ensign up, In flat defiance of humanity? Awake thou fair unspotted purity. Death's at thy window, awake bright Mellida : Antonio calls. Dog, I will make the eat thy vomit up, Which thou hast belk't gainst taintless Mellida. Ramm't quickly down, that it may not rise up To imbraid my thoughts. Behold my stomach's: Strike me quite through with the relentless edge Of raging fury. Boy, I'll kill thy love Pandulfe Feliche, I have stabbed thy son: Look, yet his lifeblood reeks upon this steel. Albert, you hangs thy friend Have none of you Courage of vengeance? Forget I am your Duke. Think Mellida is not Pieros blood. Imagine on slight ground, I'll blast his honour. Suppose I saw not that incestuous slave, Clipping the strumpet, with luxurious twines: Oh, numb my sense of anguish, cast my life In a dead sleep, while law cuts off yond main, Yond putred ulcer of my royal blood. Dead. My father dead, my love attaint of lust: Thats a large lie, as vast as spacious hell: Poor guiltless Lady. Oh accursed lie. What, whom, whither, which shall I first lament? A dead father, a dishonoured wife. Stand. Me thinks I feel the frame of nature shake. Cracks not the joints of earth to bear my woes? 'Slid sir, I will not in despite of thee. Patience is slave to fools: a chain that's fixed Only to posts, and senseless log-like dolts. Confusion to all comfort: I defy it. Comfort's a Parasite, a flattering Jack: And melts resolved despair. Oh boundless woe, If there be any black yet unknown grief: If there be any horror yet unfelt, Unthought of mischief in thy fiendlike power, Dash it upon my miserable head. Make me more wretch, more cursed if thou canst. Oh, now my fate is more than I could fear: My woes more weighty than my soul can bear. Exit Alberto, peace: that grief is wanton sick, Whose stomach can digest and brook the diet Of stale ill relished counsel. Pigmy cares Can shelter under patience shield: but giant griefs Will burst all covert. Drink deep Alberto : eat, good Lucio : But my pined heart shall eat on nought but woe. You cannot leave Antonio alone. The chamber of my breast is even thronged, With firm attendance, that forswears to flinch. I have a thing sits here; it is not grief, 'Tis not despair, nor the most plague That the most wretched are infected with: But the most greefull, despairing, wretched, Accursed, miserable. Oh, for heavens sake Forsake me now; you see how light I am, And yet you force me to defame my patience. Away, thy voice is hateful: thou dost buzz, And Beatrice my ears with intimations That Mellida, that Mellida is light, And stained with adulterous luxury: I cannot brook't. I tell the Lucio, Sooner will I give faith, that virtue's scant In princes courts, will be adorned with wreathe Of choice respect, and indeerd intimate. Sooner will I believe that friendships rain. Will curb ambition from utility, Then Mellida is light. Alas poor soul, Didst ere see her (good heart) hast herd her speak? Kind, kind soul Incredulity it self Would not be so brass hearted, as suspect so modest cheeks Away, a selfe-one gilded does only hatch distrust: But a chaste thought's as far from doubt, as lust. I entreat you leave me, I faith I will, good friend, I faith I will. I'll come and eat with you. Alberto, see, I am taking Physic, here's Philosophy. Good honest leave me, I'll drink wine anon. And cry. And close laments with Woe for me all, close all your woes in me: In me Antonio, would? Where live these sounds? I can see nothing; grief's invisible, And lurks in secret angles of the heart Come sighs again, Antonio bears his partly. Purge my poor heart from defamations blot! Poor heart, how Like her virtuous self she speaks. Mellida, deer Mellida, it is Antonio : Slink not away, 'tis thy Antonio. What is't, deer soul? I do. Madam, I will not swell Like a Tragedian, in for ced passion of affected strains. If I had present power of ought but pitying you, I would be as ready to redress your wrongs, as to pur sue your love. Throngs of thoughts crowd for their passage, somewhat I will do. Reach me thy hand: think this is honours bent, To live unslaved, to die innocent. I faith I cannot, but I'll force my face To palliate my sickness. Farewell: my heart is great of thoughts, Stay dove: And therefore I must speak: but what? o Love! By this white hand: eno more: read in these tears, What crushing anguish thy Antonio bears. Thus heat from blood, thus souls from bodies partly. Behold a prostrate wretch laid on his tomb. His Epitaph, thus; Ne plus ultra. Ho. Let none out woe me: mine Herculean woe. MAY I be more cursed then heaven can make me; If I am not more wretched Then man can conceive me. Soar forlorn Orphant, what omnipotence can make thee happy? Weep, weep. Yes mother, I do sighs, and wring my hands, Beatrice my poor breast, and wreathe my tender arms. Hark ye; I'll tell you wondrous strange, stram ̄ ge news. I am not. Strange news? why mother, is't not wondrous strange I am not mad? I run not frantic, would? Knowing my father's trunk scarce cold, your love Is sought by him that does pursue my life? Seeing the beauty of creation, Antonio's bride, pure heart, defamed, and stoad Under the hatches of obscuring earth. Heu quo labour, quo vota ceciderunt meam! Umh, the devil in his good time and tide for sake thee. Where stands my father's hearse? Set tapers to the tomb, & lamp the Church. Give me the fire, Now depart and sleep. Exeunt pages. I purify the air with odorous fume. Graves, valts, and tombs, groan not to bear my weight, Cold flesh, bleak trunks, wrapped in your half-rot shrowds, I press you softly, with a tender foot. Most honoured sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch, Leave to weep over thee, Toumb, I'll not be long Ere I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips Kiss my cold father's cheek. I pree thee, graven, Provide soft mould to wrap my carcase in. Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, where ere thou houerst (Airy intellectt) I heave up tapers to thee (view thy son) In celebration of dew obsequies. Once every night, I'll dew thy funeral hearse With my religious tears, Oh blessed father of a cursed son, Thou diedest most happy, since thou livedst not To see thy son most wretched, and thy wife Pursued by him that seeks my guiltless blood. Oh, in what orb thy mighty spirit soars, Stoop and Beatrice down this rising fog of shame, That strives to blur thy blood, and girded defame About my innocent and spotless brows. Non est mori miserum, said miserè mori. By the astonning terror of swart night, By the infectious damps of clammy graves, And by the mould that presseth down My dead father's sculle: I'll be revenged. I have a prayer or two, to offer up, For the good, good Prince, my most deer, dear Lord, The Duke Piero, and your virtuous self: And then when those prayers have obtained success, In sooth I'll come (believe it now) and couch My head in downy mould: but first I'll see You safely laid. I'll bring ye all to bed. Piero, Maria, Strotzo, Lucio, I'll see you all laid: I'll bring you all to bed, And then, i'faith, I'll come and couch my head, And sleep in peace. I, so you must, before we touch the shore Of wished revenge. Oh you departed souls, That lodge in coffined , which my feet press (If Pythagorian Axioms be true, Of spirits transmigration) floote no more To humane bodies, rather live in swine, Inhabit wolves flesh, scorpions, dogs, and toads, Rather then man, The curse of heaven reins In plagues unlimited through all his days, His mature age grows only mature vice, And ripens only to corrupt and rot The budding Hope's of infant modesty. Still striving to be more then man, he proves More then a devil, devilish suspect, devilish cruelty: All hell-strayed juice is poured to his veins, Making him drunk with fuming surquedries, Contempt of heaven, untamed arrogance, Lust, state, pride, murder. I, I will murder: graves and ghosts Fright me no more, I'll suck read vengeance Out of Pieros wounds Piero's wounds. No, not so. This shall be sought for; I'll force him feed on life Till he shall loath it. This shall be the close. Of vengeance strain. Thy father? Gracious, o bounteous heaven! I do adore thy Justice; Venit in nostras manus Tandem vindictam, venit & totam quidem. I will laugh, and dimple my thin cheek, With capering joy; chuck, my heart does leap To grasp thy bosom. Time, place, and blood, How fit you close together! Heavens tones Strike not such music to immortal souls, As your accordance sweets my breast withal. Me thinks I pace upon the front of Jove, And kick corruption with a scornful heel, Gripping this flesh, disdain mortality. Oh that I knew which joint, which side, which limb Were father all, and had no mother in't: That I might rip it vain by vain; and carve revenge In bleeding races: but since it's mixed together, Have at adventure, pel mell, no reverse. Come hither boy. This is Andrugio's hearse. Stay, stay, deer father, fright mine eyes no more. Revenge as swift as lightning bursteth forth, And clears his heart. Come, pretty tender child, It is not thee I hate, not thee I kill. Thy father's blood that flows within thy veins, Is it I loath; is that, Revenge must suck. I love thy soul: and were thy heart leapt up In any flesh, but in Piero's blood, I would thus kiss it: but being his: thus, thus, And thus I'll punch it. Abandon fears. Whilst thy wounds bleed, my brows shall gush out tears. Now barks the Wolf against the full cheeked Moon. Now Lyons halfe-clamd entrails roar for food. Now croaks the toad, & night-crows screech aloud, Fluttering about casements of departing souls. Now gapes the graves, and through their yawns let lose Imprisoned spirits to revisit earth: And now swart night, to swell thy hour out, Behold I spurt warm blood in thy black eyes. Howl not thou pury mould, groan not you graves. Be dumb all breath. Here stands Andrugio's son, Worthy his father. So: I feel no breath. His jaws are fallen, his dislodged soul is fled: And now there's nothing, but Piero, left. He is all Piero, father all. This blood, This breast, this heart, Piero all: Whom thus I mangle. Spright of Iulyo, Forget this was thy trunk. I live thy friend. Mayest thou be twined with the sofest embrace Of clear eternity: but thy father's blood, I thus make incense of, to vengeance. Ghost of my poisoned Sire, suck this fume: To sweet revenge perfume thy circling air, With smoke of blood. I sprinkle round his gore, And dew thy hearse, with these fresh reeking drops. Lo thus I heave my blood-died hands to heaven: Even Like insatiate hell, still crying; More. My heart hath thirsting Dropsies after gore. Found peace, and rest, to Church, night ghosts, and graves. Blood cries for blood; and murder murder craves. Why then should I put on the very flesh Of solid folly. No, this coxcomb is a crown Which I affect, even with unbounded zeal. Even in that, note a fools beatitude: He is not capable of passion, Wanting the power of distinction, He bears and unturned sail with every wind: Blow East, blow West, he stirs his course alike. I never saw a fool lean: the chub-fac'tfop Shines sleek with full crammed fat of happiness, Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice From wizards cheeks: who making curious search For Nature's secrets, the first innating cause Laughs them to scorn, as man does busy Apes When they will zany men. Had heaven been kind, Creating me and honest senseless dolt, A good poor fool, I should want sense to feel The stings of anguish shoot through every vain, I should not know what it to lose a father: I should be dead of sense, to view defame Blur my bright love; I could not thus run mad, As one confounded in a maze of mischief, Staggered, stark felled with bruising stroke of chance. I should not shoot mine eyes into the earth, Poring for mischief, that might counterpoise ¶ Enter Luceo. mischief, murder and How now Lucio? Asked he for Julio yet? A villain. Most joust. The devil he does more then both. Puff; hold world: puff, hold bubble; Puff, hold world: puff, break not behind: puff, thou art full of wind; puff, keep up by wind: puff, it's broke: & now I laugh Like a good fool at the breath of mine own lips, he, he, he, he, he. You fool, puff. Antonio's love! In and inundation of amazement. My loves bright crown. I Heaven, thou mayest, thou mayest omnipotence. What vermin bred of putrifacted slime, Shall dare to expostulate with thy decrees! Oh heaven, thou mayest indeed: she was all thine, All heavenly, I did but humbly beg To borrow her of thee a little time. Thou gavest her me, as some weak breasted dame Gives her infant, puts it out to nurse; And when it once goes high-lone, takes it back. She was my vital blood, and yet, and yet, I'll not blaspheme. Look here, behold, I turn my prostrate breast upon thy face, And vent a heaving sighs. Oh hear but this; I am a poor poor Orphant; a weak, weak child, The wrack of split fortune, the very Ouze, The quick sand that devours all misery. Behold the valiantest creature that does breath. For all this, I dare live, and I will live, Only to numb some others cursed blood, With the dead palsy of Like misery. Then death, Like to a stifling Incubus, Lie on my bosom. Lo sir, I am sped. My breast is Golgotha, graven for the dead. I would lost a good wife. 'Slid, sir you lie: by th'heart of grief, thou liest. I scorn't that any wretched should survive, Outmounting me in that Superlative, Most miserable, most unmatched in woe: Who dare assume that, but Antonio? Wilt sing a Dirge boy? Thanks good old man. Weel cast at royal chance. Let's think a plot; then pell mell vengeance. VINDICTAM. Alberto. Hath the Duke supped? Young Galeatzo? Vindictam. Resolved hearts, time curtals night, opportunity shakes us his foretop. Steel your thoughts, sharp your resolve, imbolde ̄ your spirit, grasp your swords; alarm mischief, & with and undam ̄ ted brow, out scout the grim opposition Of most menacing peril. Hark here, proud pomp shoots mounting triumph up, Born in loud accents to the front of Jove. Give me thy hand, and thine, most noble heart, Thus will we live, and, but thus, never partly. Mother, is Iulios body Then will I dance and whirl about the air. Me thinks I am all soul, all heart, all spirit. Now murder shall receive his ample merit. Weel cook your sweet meats, gallants, with tart Sour sauce. Murder and torture: no prayers, no intreats. I haue't Pandulpho : the veins panting bleed, Trickling fresh gore about my fist. Bind fast; so, so. Behold, black dog. To thine anguish see A fool triumphant in thy misery. Vex him Balurdo. Fall to, good Duke. o these are worthless cares, You have no stomach to them; look, look here: Here lies a dish to feast thy father's gorge. Here's flesh and blood, which I am sure thou lovest. So was Andrugio my dearest father. My father found no pity in thy blood. Scum of the mud of hell. Thus charge we death at thee: remember hell, And let the howling murmurs of black spirits, The horrid torments of the damned Ghosts Affright thy soul, as it descendeth down Into the entrails of the ugly deep. I will not lose the glory of the deed, Were all the tortures of the deepest hell Fixed to my limbs. I pierced the monsters heart, With and undaunted hand. We are amazed at your benignity: But other vows constrain another course. First let's cleanse our hands, Purge hearts of hatred, and intoumbe my love: Over whose hearse, I'll weep away my brain In true affections tears, For her sake, here I vow a virgin bed. She lives in me, with her my love is dead. Why now the womb of mischief is delivered, Of the prodigious issue of the night. Lies thy cold father dead, his glossed eyes New closed up by thy sad mother's hands? Hast thou a love as spotless as the brow Of clearest heaven, blurd with false defames? Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief Of parching mischiefs? Tell me, does thy heart With punching anguish spur thy galled ribs? Then come and let's fit and weep & wreathe our arms: I'll hear thy counsel. May I be cursed, but I credit thee. Alas, for what? God be with you. Suspect, I scorn't. Here's cap & leg; good night: Thou that wants power, with dissemblance fight. THE black jades of swart night trot foggy rings Bout heavens brow. (12) 'Tis now stark dead night. Is this Saint Marks Church? So I may sleep tombed in and honoured hearse, So may my bones rest in that Sepulcher, May I be cursed by my father's ghost, And blasted with incensed breath of heaven, If my heart Beatrice on ought but vengeance, May I be numbed with horror, and my veins Pucker with sing'ing torture, if my brain Digest a thought, but of dire vengeance: May I be fettered slave to coward Chance, If blood, heart, brain, plot ought save vengeance. Oh, for thy sisters sake, I flag revenge. See, unamazed, I will behold thy face, Outstare the terror of thy grim aspect, Daring the horred'st object of the night. Look how I smoke in blood, reeking the steam Of foaming vengeance. Oh my soul's inthroned In the triumphant chariot of revenge. Me thinks I am all air, and feel no weight Of humane dirt clog. This is Iulios blood. Rich music, father; this is Iulio's blood. Why lives that mother? By wisdoms heart there is no essence mortal, That I can envy, but a plump cheeked fool: Oh, he hath a patent of immunities Confirmed by custom, sealed by policy, As large as spacious thought. What? not a fool? Why friend, a golden ass, A babbled fool are sole canonical, Whilst pale cheeked wisdom, and lean ribd art Are kept in distance at the halberts point: All held Apocrypha, not worth survey. Why, by the Genius of that Florentine, Deep, deep observing, found brained Macheveil, He is is not wise that strives not to seem fool. When will the Duke hold feed Intelligence, Keep wary observation in large pay, To dog a fools act? Pish, most things that morally adhere to souls, Wholly exist in drunk opinion: Whose reeling censure, if I value not, It valves nought. Alberto, see you straight rumour me dead: Leave me, good mother, leave me Luceo, Forsake me all. Now patience hoop my sides, With steeled ribs, least I do burst my breast With struggling passion. Now disguise stand bold. Poor scorned habits, oft choice souls enfold. What villainy are they decocting now? Umh. Antonio's dead, the fool will follow too, he, he, he, Now works the scene; quick observation scud To coat the plot, or else the path is lost: My very self am gone, my way is fled: I, all is lost, if Mellida is dead. Exit Antonio. But she was full of hope. Have I and arm, a heart, a sword, a soul? The gloomy wing of night begins to stretch His lazy pinion over all the air: We must be stiff and steady in resolve. Let's thus our hands, our hearts, our arms involve. Now, therefore, pity, piety, remorse, Be aliens to our thoughts: grim fire-eyed rage Possess us wholly. Now pel mell; thus the hand of heaven chokes The throat of murder. This for my father's blood. Poor? standing triumphant over Belzebub ? Having large interest for blood; & yet deemed poor? Ferte fortiter: hoc est quo deum antecedatis. Ille enim ex tram patientiam malorum; vos supram. Contemnite dolorem: aut solvetur, aut solvet. Contemnite fortuna ̄ : nullum ̄ telum ̄ , quo feriret animum habet. Ferte fortiter: hoc est quo deum antecedatis. Ille enim ex tram patientiam malorum; vos supram. Contemnite dolorem: aut solvetur, aut solvet. Contemnite fortuna ̄ : nullum ̄ telum ̄ , quo feriret animum habet. Pish, thy mother was not lately widowed, Thy deer affied love, lately defamed, With blemish of foul lust, when thou wrotest thus. Thou wrapped in furs, beaking thy limbs before fierce, Forbidst the froze ̄ Zone to shudder. Would, would: 'tis nought, But fomie bubbling of a fleamy brain, Nought else but smoke. Oh what danke marrish spirit, But would be fired with impatience, At my No more, no more: he that was never blessed, With height of birth, fair expectation Of mounted Fortune's, knows not what it is To be the pitied object of the world. Oh, poor Antonio, thou mayest sighs. Mine. And curse.