The White Devil | Page 8

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 a helmet lovely; but on me,
In 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,