The White Devil | Page 9

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, sir, I 'll presently to Padua; I will not stay a minute.

Mont. Oh, good madam!
Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour; Some half-day's journey
will bring down her stomach, And then she 'll turn in post.
Fran. To see her come To my lord for a dispensation Of her rash vow,
will beget excellent laughter.
Isab. 'Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break: Those are the killing
griefs, which dare not speak.' [Exit.
Marc. Camillo's come, my lord.
Enter Camillo
Fran. Where 's the commission?
Marc. 'Tis here.
Fran. Give me the signet.
Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their
whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads,
stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which are
scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart, shall
not do it with more silence or invisible cunning.
Enter Doctor
Brach. About the murder?
Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy.
Here 's another property too.
Brach. Oh, the doctor!
Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been
lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an
execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.

Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself,
and made pay all the colorable execution.
Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more
ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was
once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to
have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have
poisoned all Dublin.
Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire!
Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord.
Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot,
like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee,
toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will
fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!
Brach. No more.--I must employ thee, honest doctor: You must to
Padua, and by the way, Use some of your skill for us.
Doctor. Sir, I shall.
Brach. But for Camillo?
Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain, Men shall suppose
him by 's own engine slain. But for your duchess' death----
Doctor. I 'll make her sure.
Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.
Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment,
they rise as gallows in the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders.
[Exeunt. Monticelso, Camillo, and Francisco come forward.
Mont. Here is an emblem, nephew, pray peruse it: 'Twas thrown in at
your window.

Cam. At my window! Here is a stag, my lord, hath shed his horns, And,
for the loss of them, the poor beast weeps: The word, Inopem me copia
fecit.
Mont. That is, Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns.
Cam. What should this mean?
Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given out You are a cuckold.
Cam. Is it given out so? I had rather such reports as that, my lord,
Should keep