The White Devil | Page 7

by it, but iron in thy wounds, And gunpowder in thy nostrils.
Fran. Better that, Than change perfumes for plasters.
Brach. Pity on thee! 'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd, Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee, Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.
Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further Without a milder limit.
Fran. Willingly.
Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait A lion thus?
Mont. My lord!
Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir.
Fran. We send unto the duke for conference 'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke Is not at home: we come ourself in person; Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear When Tiber to each prowling passenger Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord-- 'Bout moulting time I mean--we shall be certain To find you sure enough, and speak with you.
Brach. Ha!
Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle. But to express the sonnet by natural reason, [Enter Giovanni. When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.
Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion Shall end the difference between you both; Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords, What hopes you store in him; this is a casket For both your crowns, and should be held like dear. Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know It is a more direct and even way, To train to virtue those of princely blood, By examples than by precepts: if by examples, Whom should he rather strive to imitate Than his own father? be his pattern then, Leave him a stock of virtue that may last, Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast.
Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier?
Giov. Give me a pike.
Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin?
Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord, Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me, Might not a child of good discretion Be leader to an army?
Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince Of good discretion might.
Giov. Say you so? Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general Should not endanger his own person oft; So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback, Like a Danske drummer,--Oh, 'tis excellent!-- He need not fight! methinks his horse as well Might lead an army for him. If I live, I 'll charge the French foe in the very front Of all my troops, the foremost man.
Fran. What! what!
Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow, But bid them follow me.
Brach. Forward lapwing! He flies with the shell on 's head.
Fran. Pretty cousin!
Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war, All prisoners that I take, I will set free, Without their ransom.
Fran. Ha! without their ransom! How then will you reward your soldiers, That took those prisoners for you?
Giov. Thus, my lord: I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widows That falls that year.
Fran. Why then, the next year following, You 'll have no men to go with you to war.
Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war, And then the men will follow.
Mont. Witty prince!
Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast. Come, you and I are friends.
Brach. Most wishedly: Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set, Knit the more strongly.
Fran. Call Camillo hither.-- You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count Lodowick Is turn'd a pirate?
Brach. Yes.
Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess. We now will leave you, and expect from you Nothing but kind entreaty.
Brach. You have charm'd me. [Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni. Enter Isabella You are in health, we see.
Isab. And above health, To see my lord well.
Brach. So: I wonder much What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome.
Isab. Devotion, my lord.
Brach. Devotion! Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin?
Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleep will be the sounder.
Brach. Take your chamber.
Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry! Doth not my absence from you, now two months, Merit one kiss?
Brach. I do not use to kiss: If that will dispossess your jealousy, I 'll swear it to you.
Isab. O, my loved lord, I do not come to chide: my jealousy! I am to learn what that Italian means. You are as welcome to these longing arms, As I to you a virgin.
Brach. Oh, your breath! Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic, The plague is in them!
Isab. You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected cassia, or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd. My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns Show in