The White Devil Part 9

Fran. What! turn'd fury!

Isab. To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her lie Some twenty months a-dying; to cut off Her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth; Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophies Of my just anger! h.e.l.l, to my affliction, Is mere snow-water. By your favour, sir;-- Brother, draw near, and my lord cardinal;-- Sir, let me borrow of you but one kiss; Henceforth I 'll never lie with you, by this, This wedding-ring.

Fran. How, ne'er more lie with him!

Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly kept As if in thronged court a thousand ears Had heard it, and a thousand lawyers' hands Sealed to the separation.

Brach. Ne'er lie with me!

Isab. Let not my former dotage Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never on my soul be satisfied With my repentance: manet alta mente repostum.

Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad, And jealous woman.

Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking.

Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn, You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee, For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow And take your chamber.

Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua; I will not stay a minute.

Mont. Oh, good madam!

Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour; Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach, And then she 'll turn in post.

Fran. To see her come To my lord for a dispensation Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter.

Isab. 'Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break: Those are the killing griefs, which dare not speak.' [Exit.

Marc. Camillo's come, my lord.

Enter Camillo

Fran. Where 's the commission?

Marc. 'Tis here.

Fran. Give me the signet.

Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning.

Enter Doctor

Brach. About the murder?

Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy.

Here 's another property too.

Brach. Oh, the doctor!

Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.

Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colorable execution.

Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin.

Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire!

Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord.

Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot, like a needle a surgeon st.i.tcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!

Brach. No more.--I must employ thee, honest doctor: You must to Padua, and by the way, Use some of your skill for us.

Doctor. Sir, I shall.

Brach. But for Camillo?