The White Devil Part 6

Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed.

Mont. It is a wonder to your n.o.ble friends, That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world With a free scepter in your able hand, And having to th' use of nature well applied High gifts of learning, should in your prime age Neglect your awful throne for the soft down Of an insatiate bed. O my lord, The drunkard after all his lavish cups Is dry, and then is sober; so at length, When you awake from this lascivious dream, Repentance then will follow, like the sting Plac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes When fortune blasteth but a petty flower Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth But one pearl from their scepter; but alas!

When they to wilful s.h.i.+pwreck lose good fame, All princely t.i.tles perish with their name.

Brach. You have said, my lord----

Mont. Enough to give you taste How far I am from flattering your greatness.

Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you?

Do not like young hawks fetch a course about; Your game flies fair, and for you.

Fran. Do not fear it: I 'll answer you in your own hawking phrase.

Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun Seldom soar high, but take their l.u.s.tful ease, Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.

You know Vittoria?

Brach. Yes.

Fran. You s.h.i.+ft your s.h.i.+rt there, When you retire from 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 wh.o.r.e 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 G.o.d 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; l.u.s.t 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 pa.s.senger 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.