The White Devil Part 33

Gas. Brachiano.

Lodo. Devil Brachiano, thou art d.a.m.n'd.

Gas. Perpetually.

Lodo. A slave condemn'd and given up to the gallows, Is thy great lord and master.

Gas. True; for thou Art given up to the devil.

Lodo. Oh, you slave!

You that were held the famous politician, Whose art was poison.

Gas. And whose conscience, murder.

Lodo. That would have broke your wife's neck down the stairs, Ere she was poison'd.

Gas. That had your villainous sallets.

Lodo. And fine embroider'd bottles, and perfumes, Equally mortal with a winter plague.

Gas. Now there 's mercury----

Lodo. And copperas----

Gas. And quicksilver----

Lodo. With other devilish 'pothecary stuff, A-melting in your politic brains: dost hear?

Gas. This is Count Lodovico.

Lodo. This, Gasparo: And thou shalt die like a poor rogue.

Gas. And stink Like a dead fly-blown dog.

Lodo. And be forgotten Before the funeral sermon.

Brach. Vittoria! Vittoria!

Lodo. Oh, the cursed devil Comes to himself a gain! we are undone.

Gas. Strangle him in private. [Enter Vittoria and the Attendants.

What? Will you call him again to live in treble torments?

For charity, for christian charity, avoid the chamber.

Lodo. You would prate, sir? This is a true-love knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. [Brachiano is strangled.

Gas. What, is it done?

Lodo. The snuff is out. No woman-keeper i' th' world, Though she had practis'd seven year at the pest-house, Could have done 't quaintlier. My lords, he 's dead.

Vittoria and the others come forward

Omnes. Rest to his soul!

Vit. Oh me! this place is h.e.l.l.

Fran. How heavily she takes it!

Flam. Oh, yes, yes; Had women navigable rivers in their eyes, They would dispend them all. Surely, I wonder Why we should wish more rivers to the city, When they sell water so good cheap. I 'll tell thee These are but Moorish shades of griefs or fears; There 's nothing sooner dry than women's tears.

Why, here 's an end of all my harvest; he has given me nothing.

Court promises! let wise men count them curs'd; For while you live, he that scores best, pays worst.

Fran. Sure this was Florence' doing.

Flam. Very likely: Those are found weighty strokes which come from th' hand, But those are killing strokes which come from th' head.

Oh, the rare tricks of a Machiavellian!

He doth not come, like a gross plodding slave, And buffet you to death; no, my quaint knave, He tickles you to death, makes you die laughing, As if you had swallow'd down a pound of saffron.

You see the feat, 'tis practis'd in a trice; To teach court honesty, it jumps on ice.