The White Devil | Page 7

tennis?
Brach. Happily.
Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune, Yet she wears cloth of
tissue.
Brach. What of this? Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal, As part
of her confession at next shrift, And know from whence it sails?
Fran. She is your strumpet----

Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath, And that black
slander. Were she a whore of mine, All thy loud cannons, and thy
borrow'd Switzers, Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates, Durst not
supplant her.
Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder. Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I
had given Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast In her
last winding sheet, when I gave thee But one.
Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then.
Fran. True: Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution, Shall ne'er do so
by thee.
Brach. Spit thy poison.
Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.
Look to 't, for our anger Is making thunderbolts.
Brach. Thunder! in faith, They are but crackers.
Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon.
Brach. Thou 'lt get naught 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