Scene III A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace
Enter the Duke, Doctor Benedict, and two Servants.
Duke. Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors— [Speaking as he enters.
And fellows, what your eyes and ears receive,
Upon your lives trust not the gadding air
To carry the least part of it. The glass, the hour-glass!
Doct. Here, my lord. [Brings hour-glass.
Duke. Ah, ’tis near spent!
But, Doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth?
Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb,
And leave the crystal banks of her white body
Pure as they were at first, just at the hour?
Doct. Just at the hour, my lord.
Duke. Uncurtain her:
[A curtain is drawn back and Infelice discovered lying on a couch.
Softly!—See, doctor, what a coldish heat
Spreads over all her body!
Doct. Now it works:
The vital spirits that by a sleepy charm
Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust
On her exterior parts, now ’gin to break;
Trouble her not, my lord.
Duke. Some stools! [Servants set stools.] You called
For music, did you not? Oh ho, it speaks, [Music.
It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking, note those sands.
Doctor, sit down: A dukedom that should weigh
Mine own down twice, being put into one scale,
And that fond134 desperate boy, Hippolito,
Making the weight up, should not at my hands
Buy her i’th’other, were her state more light
Than her’s, who makes a dowry up with alms.
Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine
Ere he shall marry her. I must confess,
Hippolito is nobly born; a man—
Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins—
Whom I would court to be my son-in-law;
But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell,
Are not with easy art made parallel.
Servants. She wakes, my lord.
Duke. Look, Doctor Benedict—
I charge you on your lives, maintain for truth,
What e’er the doctor or myself aver,
For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo.
Inf. O God, what fearful dreams! [Wakening.
Doct. Lady.
Inf. Ha!
Duke. Girl.
Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?
Inf. I’m well—what makes this doctor here?
—I’m well.
Duke. Thou wert not so even now, sickness’ pale hand
Laid hold on thee even in the midst of feasting;
And when a cup crowned with thy lover’s health
Had touched thy lips, a sensible cold dew
Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept
To see such beauty alter.
Inf. I remember
I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.
Duke. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger
Came wildly in, with this unsavory news,
That he was dead?
Inf. What messenger? who’s dead?
Duke. Hippolito. Alack! wring not thy hands.
Inf. I saw no messenger, heard no such news.
Doct. Trust me you did, sweet lady.
Duke. La, you now!
1st Ser. Yes, indeed, madam.
Duke. La, you now.—’Tis well, good knaves!
Inf. You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me.
Duke. Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself,
Of this the bad report before did strike
So coldly to thy heart, that the swift currents
Of life were all frozen up——
Inf. It is untrue,
’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father!
Duke. And we had much to do by art’s best cunning,
To fetch life back again.
Doct. Most certain, lady.
Duke. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me. Friends,
Swear we not all? had we not much to do?
Servants. Yes, indeed, my lord, much.
Duke. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face,
That were Hippolito alive again,
I’d kneel and woo the noble gentleman
To be thy husband: now I sore repent
My sharpness to him, and his family;
Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die—
Doctor, this place where she so oft hath seen
His lively presence, hurts her, does it not?
Doct. Doubtless, my lord, it does.
Duke. It does, it does:
Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.
Inf. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.
Duke. A coach is ready, Bergamo doth stand
In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer,
Ay, thou shalt hunt and send us venison,
Which like some goddess in the Cyprian groves,
Thine own fair hand shall strike;—Sirs, you shall teach her
To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt:
Cast off this sorrow. In, girl, and prepare
This night to ride away to Bergamo.
Inf. O most unhappy maid! [Exit.
Duke. Follow her close.
No words that she was buried, on your lives!
Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead;
I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.
1st Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.
2nd Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.
Duke. Away, look to her.—[Exeunt Servants.]—Doctor Benedict,
Did you observe how her complexion altered
Upon his name and death? Oh, would t’were true.
Doct. It may, my lord.
Duke. May! how? I wish his death.
Doct. And you may have your wish; say but the word,
And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave:
I have good knowledge with Hippolito;
He calls me friend, I’ll creep into his bosom,
And sting him there to death; poison can do’t.
Duke. Perform it; I’ll create thee half mine heir.
Doct. It shall be done, although the fact be foul.
Duke. Greatness hides sin, the guilt upon my soul! [Exeunt.