The White Devil Part 15

Mont. Well, well, such counterfeit jewels Make true ones oft suspected.

Vit. You are deceiv'd: For know, that all your strict-combined heads, Which strike against this mine of diamonds, Shall prove but gla.s.sen hammers: they shall break.

These are but feigned shadows of my evils.

Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils, I am past such needless palsy. For your names Of 'wh.o.r.e' and 'murderess', they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind, The filth returns in 's face.

Mont. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question: Who lodg'd beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband broke his neck?

Brach. That question Enforceth me break silence: I was there.

Mont. Your business?

Brach. Why, I came to comfort her, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you, my lord.

Mont. He was.

Brach. And 'twas strangely fear'd, That you would cozen her.

Mont. Who made you overseer?

Brach. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and n.o.ble spirit, To orphans and to widows.

Mont. Your l.u.s.t!

Brach. Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest, I 'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear?

The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, I 'll sheath in your own bowels.

There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common post-boys.

Mont. Ha!

Brach. Your mercenary post-boys; Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies.

Servant. My lord, your gown.

Brach. Thou liest, 'twas my stool: Bestow 't upon thy master, that will challenge The rest o' th' household-stuff; for Brachiano Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool Out of another's lodging: let him make Vallance for his bed on 't, or a demy foot-cloth For his most reverend moil. Monticelso, Nemo me impune lacessit. [Exit.

Mont. Your champion's gone.

Vit. The wolf may prey the better.

Fran. My lord, there 's great suspicion of the murder, But no sound proof who did it. For my part, I do not think she hath a soul so black To act a deed so b.l.o.o.d.y; if she have, As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines, And with warm blood manure them; even so One summer she will bear unsavoury fruit, And ere next spring wither both branch and root.

The act of blood let pa.s.s; only descend To matters of incontinence.

Vit. I discern poison Under your gilded pills.

Mont. Now the duke's gone, I will produce a letter Wherein 'twas plotted, he and you should meet At an apothecary's summer-house, Down by the River Tiber,--view 't, my lords, Where after wanton bathing and the heat Of a lascivious banquet--I pray read it, I shame to speak the rest.

Vit. Grant I was tempted; Temptation to l.u.s.t proves not the act: Casta est quam nemo rogavit.

You read his hot love to me, but you want My frosty answer.

Mont. Frost i' th' dog-days! strange!

Vit. Condemn you me for that the duke did love me?

So may you blame some fair and crystal river, For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drown'd himself in 't.

Mont. Truly drown'd, indeed.

Vit. Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find, That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart, And a good stomach to feast, are all, All the poor crimes that you can charge me with.

In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies, The sport would be more n.o.ble.

Mont. Very good.

Vit. But take your course: it seems you 've beggar'd me first, And now would fain undo me. I have houses, Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes; Would those would make you charitable!

Mont. If the devil Did ever take good shape, behold his picture.

Vit. You have one virtue left, You will not flatter me.

Fran. Who brought this letter?