The White Devil Part 17

Mont. Of convert.i.tes.

Vit. It shall not be a house of convert.i.tes; My mind shall make it honester to me Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal.

Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite, Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light. [Exit.

Enter Brachiano

Brach. Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands In a friend's grave together; a fit place, Being th' emblem of soft peace, t' atone our hatred.

Fran. Sir, what 's the matter?

Brach. I will not chase more blood from that lov'd cheek; You have lost too much already; fare you well. [Exit.

Fran. How strange these words sound! what 's the interpretation?

Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the d.u.c.h.ess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit a whining pa.s.sion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions.

Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in 't; I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman.

Enter Giovanni, and Count Lodovico

Fran. How now, my n.o.ble cousin? what, in black!

Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you In virtue, and you must imitate me In colours of your garments. My sweet mother Is----

Fran. How? where?

Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I 'll not tell you, For I shall make you weep.

Fran. Is dead?

Giov. Do not blame me now, I did not tell you so.

Lodo. She 's dead, my lord.

Fran. Dead!

Mont. Bless'd lady, thou art now above thy woes!

Will 't please your lordships to withdraw a little?

Giov. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat, Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry, As we that live?

Fran. No, coz; they sleep.

Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!

I have not slept these six nights. When do they wake?

Fran. When G.o.d shall please.

Giov. Good G.o.d, let her sleep ever!

For I have known her wake an hundred nights, When all the pillow where she laid her head Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir; I 'll tell you how they have us'd her now she 's dead: They wrapp'd her in a cruel fold of lead, And would not let me kiss her.

Fran. Thou didst love her?

Giov. I have often heard her say she gave me suck, And it should seem by that she dearly lov'd me, Since princes seldom do it.

Fran. Oh, all of my poor sister that remains!

Take him away for G.o.d's sake! [Exit Giovanni.

Mont. How now, my lord?

Fran. Believe me, I am nothing but her grave; And I shall keep her blessed memory Longer than thousand epitaphs.

SCENE III

Enter Flamineo as distracted, Marcello, and Lodovico

Flam. We endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel, Till pain itself make us no pain to feel.

Who shall do me right now? is this the end of service? I'd rather go weed garlic; travail through France, and be mine own ostler; wear sheep-skin linings, or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into the list of the forty thousand pedlars in Poland. [Enter Savoy Amba.s.sador.] Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice, built upon the pox as well as on piles, ere I had served Brachiano!