MALATESTE

WHen first you came from Florence, would the world Had with and universal dire eclipse Been over whelmed, no more to gaze on day, That you to Spain had never found the way, Here to be lost for ever. To show you, Madam, The picture of your self, but so defaced, And mangled by proud Spaniards, it wooed whet A sword to arm the poorest Florentine In your just wrongs. Here it's then: Time is not scarce four days old. Since I, and certain Dons (sharp-witted fellows, And of good rank) ere with two Jesuits (Grave profound Scholars) in deep argument Of various propositions; at the last, Question was mov worser touching your marriage, And the ings precontract. Whither it were a question moved by chance Or spitefully of purpose (I being there, And your own Countryman) I cannot tell, But when much tossing Had bandied both the King and you, as pleased Those that took up the Rackets; in conclusion, The Father Jesuits (to whose subtle Music Every care there was tied) stood with their lives In stiff defence of this opinion— O pardon me if I must speak their language. That the most Catholic King in marrying you, Keeps you but as his whore. And that Medina's Niece ( Onaelia ) Is his true wife: her bastard son they said (The King being dead) should claim and wear the Crown; And whatsoever children you shall bear, To be but bastards in the highest degree, As being begotten in Adultery. If I were fit to be your Counsellor, Thus would I speak: Feign that you are with child; The mother of the Maids, and some worn Ladies, Who oft have guilty been to court great be llies, May, though it be not so, get you with child With swearing that it's true. The joy thereof, Together with these earthquakes, wh changed will shake All pain, if they their Prince do disinherit, So born, of such a Queen; being only Dam ghter To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence, All this buzz worser into the King, he cannot choose But charge that all the Bells in Spain echo up TO is Joy to heaven; that Bonfires change the night To a high Noon, with beams of sparkling flames; And that in Churches, Organs (charmed with prayers) Speak loud for your most safe delivery. These; you must stick (As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers) Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their ears To every mouth, and steal to you their whisperings. It's a plummet to found Spanish hearts How deeply they are yours: beside, a guess Is hereby made of any faction That shall combide against you; which the King seeing, If then he will not rouse him Like a Dragon To guard his golden fleece, and rid his Harlot And her base bastard hence, either by death, Or in some traps of state, ensnare them both, Let his own ruins crush him. Medina's faction preached it openly. She plays true Music, Sir: The mischiefs you are drench worser in are so full, You needs not fear to add to they; since now No way is left to guard thy rest secure, But by a means Like this. One of your guard's slain, keep off the murderer. Which, Noble Soldier, she will pawn for thee, But never forfeit. The King commands it, you are but Executioner. Thou shalt be called thy Countries Patriot, For quenching out a fire now newly kindling In factious bosoms, and shalt thereby save More Noble Spaniards lives, than thou slewest Moors. Of this danger The fear afflicts the King. Stab her, or so, that's all. No nets upon my life to entrap thee. Just is your Indignation, high, and Noble, And the brave heat of a true Florentine; For Spain Trumpets abroad her Interest In the Kings heart, and with a black coal draws On every wall your scoffed at injuries, As one that has the refuse of her sheets, And the sick Autumn of the weakened King, Where she drunk pleasures up in the full spring. The Priest that joins them, Our Twin-born malediction. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way, Be Cypresle, Yew, cold Colliquintida. To these our execrations, and what mischief Hell can but hatch in a distracted brain, I le be the Executioner, though it look So harrid it can fright e'ne murder back. At board? When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a fair Island, hemmed with Rocks and Seas, What rescue shall I find? Were my bones threatened to the wheel of torture I'll doo't. So, so, we come To turn this Brides day to a day of doom. Free from one good look till the blow be given. As all our Spanish figs are. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon. 'Twill hurt your health sir. Alas ir; You have drunk your last, that poisoned bowl I filled Not to be put into your hand, but hers. The Queen has sent me thither. Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge That none shall enter but by your command.