The White Devil | Page 8

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: Never?
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,