ACT I.
SCENE I. A Platform.
Enter MARCELLUS, ſupporting MANOA; Attendants behind.
MARCELLUS.
LOOK up, ſir; you are ſafe. The tempeſt's wildneſs Seems huſh'd on ſhore. Where was your veſſel bound?
MANOA.
Ancona was her port; the hurricane
Baffled our pilot's ſkill, and drove us headlong
(Juſt as your ſhip made good her anchorage,)
On the ſharp rock, where you beheld her ſplit.
All my companions, fifty luckleſs men,
Sunk in my ſight; and I had ſhar'd their fate,
Had not your ſtrong arm ſav'd me. But, alas,
We are in Genoa, if mine eyes deceive not.
MARCELLUS.
The fame.
MANOA.
[2]Too well I know it. Shield me Heaven!
For what am I reſerv'd?
MARCELLUS.
I hope, to loſe
The memory of your grief, and find peace here.
MANOA.
O no! to loſe my life, if I'm found here.
MARCELLUS.
Pray, let me know your ſtory. By your habit
I gueſs you are not of our faith or nation.
MANOA.
I am by birth of Syria; but here ſojourn'd
Twice twenty years in wealth and fair repute,
Till Chriſtian malice, or my nation's curſe,
Or both combining, turn'd me forth a wanderer.
Look there, that very manſion once was mine.
MARCELLUS.
I now recall ſome traces of that face:
Your name is Manoa?
MANOA.
Ay, that wretch am I.
Thou haſt an aſpect to benign and noble,
Thou could'ſt not injure me.
MARCELLUS,
Myſelf much ſooner.
MANOA.
This ſtate, for its late levies 'gainſt the Turk,
Call'd on all traffickers for ſums of gold;
[3]Our tribe, at my perſuaſion, furniſh'd them,
On rates ſo eaſy to the borrowers,
The native merchants' offers were refus'd,
And publick clamour, and diſgrace, purſued them:
Thence grew their hate. Of black and monſtrous crimes,
Avouch'd on oath by witneſſes ſuborn'd,
They charg'd me guiltleſs: flight alone was left,
To ſave my hunted life.
MARCELLUS.
And I remember,
'Twas rumour'd you had periſh'd by the ſea,
Attempting your eſcape; and ſo believ'd:
Knaves call'd your fate a judgment.
MANOA.
To prevent
A hot purſuit, the Hebrews here in Genoa
By common concert ſpread abroad that rumour.
The death they feign'd, this morning, but for thee,
My brave preſerver, had indeed o'erta'en me.
MARCELLUS.
I can do more to ſerve you. Name your wiſh.
MANOA.
At preſent, this. Not far from hence reſides
The lord Durazzo, whoſe great wealth and power,
As heaven ſends dews and ſunſhine, are diſpens'd
To gladden every humble thing beneath them.
Let your men help me there, for I am feeble;
And this diſguiſe may ſave me from the note
Of thoſe who paſs,—though in this ſlothful city
Few leave their down ſo early.
MARCELLUS.
[4]Sir, farewel!
You ſhall hear more of me.
MANOA.
Accept my prayers!
My heart's too full to ſpeak the thanks I owe you.
Exit MANOA. with Attendants.
MARCELLUS.
He has been ſorely wrong'd.—But who goes there?
CAMILLO paſſes over the ſtage.
I cannot ſure miſtake him: 'Tis Camillo.
Good kinſman, turn, and own a friend who loves you.
CAMILLO returns.
SCENE II.
CAMILLO, MARCELLUS.
CAMILLO.
A gentle invitation. Ha! Marcellus!
Welcome once more to Genoa, my dear couſin,
embracing.
We heard you had eſcap'd with ſome ſlight hurts
That bloody lingering buſineſs there at Candia;
But ſuch fierce ſtorms of late have ſwept our coaſts,
Our fears were, leſt the angry elements,
Leaguing alike againſt the Chriſtian croſs,
Might prove worſe foes even than the infidels.
MARCELLUS.
We had rough weather, but our ſturdy bark
Out-rode it. Is my mother well? At leiſure
I ſhall fatigue your ear with other queſtions
My ignorance and your kindneſs muſt excuſe.
CAMILLO.
[5]You have not ſeen her then?
MARCELLUS.
No. I arriv'd
Within this hour; and knowing how ſhe lov'd,
Lov'd even to dotage, my poor brother Claudio,
(Loſt by a fate ſo ſtrange and horrible,)
I would not ruſh at once into her preſence,
Till ſome kind friend, like you, ſhould firſt inform me,
How beſt to aſſuage her grief, and hide my own.
CAMILLO.
Thought like a ſon. But O, his vaniſh'd form,
Again preſented in your living likeneſs,
Will with the ſtrong extreme convulſe her ſoul,
And joy ſo mix'd with anguiſh doubly ſhake her.
MARCELLUS.
'Twas what I fear'd, Camillo. I muſt try then
To fix her fond attention on myſelf,
And ſhun that direful theme.
CAMILLO.
Direful indeed!
(How my heart ſhrinks even now think of it!)
'Tis ever preſent to her tortur'd fancy:
And we who daily ſee her, have obſerv'd,
Our care to give the current of her thoughts
A different courſe, but ſwells up her impatience.
You know the lady Fulvia's ardent temper,
How ſudden, yet how ſtrong in every feeling.
MARCELLUS.
Our burning mountains, when their fires burſt forth,
[6]Rage not more fiercely than her breaſt inflam'd.
But is it poſſible, in all this time,
Months after months elaps'd, no light, no ſpark,
To guide to a diſcovery has been trac'd?
The Turkiſh gallies ſo o'erſpread the ſea,
My letters rarely reach'd me while at Candia.
CAMILLO.
What have you heard?
MARCELLUS.
But thus much, and no more:
Two days ere that for his intended marriage
With good Durazzo's daughter, lovely Julia,
Was Claudio miſſing; two days more were paſs'd
In fruitleſs ſearch, and ſad anxiety:
When on the fifth, ſome weary mariners,
Flying for ſhelter from a furious ſtorm,
Midſt the white caverns on the weſtern ſhore,
A mile from Genoa, found his lifeleſs body:
In his clench'd hand was his own blood-ſtain'd ſword,
And in his manly breaſt a mortal wound.
CAMILLO.
And there ends all our knowledge. Proclamation
Of vaſt rewards to find his murderer,
Is ſtill abroad through all the Italian ſtates.
The untouch'd jewels of his coſtly habit,
Bright and conſpicuous, clearly manifeſt
'Twas not the crime of men who kill for ſpoil.
MARCELLUS.
Alas, Camillo, well I know the place;
When we were boys it was our favourite haunt.
He could not ſure have fall'n by his own ſword?
CAMILLO.
[7]Impoſſible: A thought ſo black and sullen
Ne'er dim'd the ſunſhine of his chearful breaſt.
The joy he long had ſigh'd for in his reach,
Poſſeſs'd of all that gilds the morn of life,
And each fair proſpect bright'ning to his hopes;
Beſides, the exalted tenour of his mind,
Too firm and full for wild extremities;
They cruſh that black concluſion: nay, the ſkilful,
Who ſearch'd the wound with cloſeſt art and care,
Pronounc'd it, not the execrable work
Of his own ſword, but ſome aſſaſſin's ſteel.
MARCELLUS.
May wakeful conſcience, like a writhing ſnake,
If ſtill he lives, curl round the villain's heart,
With ſharpeſt venom to conſume and gnaw him!
I know our baſe, Italian, ſtabbing ſpirit;
In the cloſe art of murder none excell us.
We read the very earth, breathe the ſame air,
With our old Latian fires; but, for their virtues,
As well might eagles ruſtle their large plumes
Where owlets rooſt, or filthy kites engender.
As they find ſhelter in our daſtard breaſts.
CAMILLO.
Let others rail; but thine's a nobler taſk;
To ſhame desen'racy by fair example:
For twenty forward ſpirits, like thine own,
Might ſhake this ſtate from its inglorious trance.
And rouſe our ſloth to gallant enterpriſe.
MARCELLUS.
I left it a luxurious, worthleſs city,
[...] of its traſh, its wealth, if ſuch I find it,
[8]I will not ſtrike my lazy root at home,
To rot in rank contagious apathy,
But ſeek again a ſcene of vigorous action.
The unſkilful perſeverance of the Turk
Still wakes excitement for a ſoldier's ardour.—
But who are thoſe to earneſt in diſcourſe?
This way they move.
CAMILLO.
Durazzo is the eldeſt.
MARCELLUS.
Fair Julia's father; him I know. The other?
CAMILLO.
Mentevole his name, a noble youth,
And ſuitor (hopeleſsly, I think,) to Julia,
Though vulgar fame calls him a favour'd wooer.
But this report, ſtartling your mother's ear,
(Who brooks no ſlight to her ſon's memory,)
Has much eſtrang'd her from Durazzo's houſe:
And thus, the bonds of their long amity
The lie with many mouths has puff'd aſunder.
MARCELLUS.
My care all be to reunite their friendſhip.
But how muſt I eſteem Mentevole?
CAMILLO.
As one accompliſh'd, brave, and liberal.
Soon after your departure for the ſiege,
He came from travel home, and was to Claudio
A ſecond ſelf.
MARCELLUS.
So ſhall he be to me;
[9]I'll wear him here. But go thou to my mother,
Prepare her for my coming. For a moment
Leave me to greet this venerable lord,
And beg his introduction to the ſtranger.
Exit CAMILLO,
SCENE III.
To MARCELLUS, DURAZZO, and MENTEVOLE.
The ruddy hue your viſage owns, my lord,
I ſee with pleaſure is ſound health's true enſign:
Your eye's quick ſpirit too, proclaims you freſh
As when the race of careleſs youth began.
DURAZZO.
Such is your wiſh, Marcellus, and I thank you.
O welcome, to thy country! thy ſmooth cheek
Has chang'd its down for manhood ſince we parted.
But for theſe well-known kindred lineaments,
I ſcarce durſt ſwear, thou wert that playful boy,
Whoſe frolicks uſed to mar our gravity,
And make us ſmile while chiding.
MARCELLUS.
I remember
Your goodneſs always; now entreat your favour,
To recommend me to this lord's eſteem,
As, by the title of my brother's friend,
He claims already mine.
DURAZZO.
Mentevole,
Give him your hand.
MENTEVOLE.
My heart too, 'twas his brother's;
And by that pledge grows thus at once acquainted.
DURAZZO.
[10]Marcellus, you muſt tell me of your wars,
Your mines, your ſallies, ambuſcades, and dangers.
Though now 'tis long ſince I was caſed in ſteel,
The creſent of our ſwarthy foe has felt me.
MARCELLUS.
They are ſluggliſh ſoldiers, but right obſtinate:
So numerous too, it ſeems an caller taſk
To kill, than count them. Now twice fifty thouſand,
And more, have fall'n, in ſacking one poor iſle;
Yet, like light foam chaf'd by the curling ſurge,
Each hour new turbans whiten round its ſhores.—
But yet I have not viſited my mother,
And ſhe by this expects me.
DURAZZO.
Get thee to her.
Unhappy lady, may your preſence cheer her!
Exit MARCELLUS
SCENE IV.
DURAZZO, MENTEVOLE.
Is he not like to Claudie?
MENTEVOLE.
Rather ſay,
Is't not himſelf, as ere the tomb receiv'd him?
But dear my lord, by all that charm'd your youth,
Forgive me, though I ſeem importunate:
O, win your daughter to accept my vows;
For I have lov'd to ſuch a mad exceſs,
So ſtor'd up every thought of happineſs
[11]In that fond hope, ſhould I prove bankrupt there,
I dare not look to earth or Heaven for comfort.
DURAZZO.
Mentevole, I doubt not of your love;
My daughter too believes it; a feign'd paſſion
Speaks not your fervent language:—
MENTEVOLE.
A feign'd paſſion!
Thus hear me ſwear—
DURAZZO.
Oaths are unneceſſary.
My tongue has not been niggard of your praiſe;
I've tried entreaties too. A harſh command,
Heard with repugnancy, that ſhe ſhould love,
Becauſe her anxious father deems it meet,
Or you would have it ſo, might change at once
The indifference you complain of to averſion.
Thus the calm lake that ſlept at peace before,
Turns a ſtrong tide, and ſets againſt your wiſhes.
MENTEVOLE.
O, the degrees, my lord, are infinite,
Between a harſh command, and ſuch perſuaſion
As every day the fondeſt parents uſe,
In tender ſtrife with a coy maid's reluctance.
Were I to plead as a feed advocate,
Even for a ſcanty rood of barren earth,
I ſhould account me faithleſs to my charge,
My rhetorick o'erpriz'd at one poor ducat,
Did I neglect a gloſs, or argument,
Might ſway the unwilling judge to my deciſion.
DURAZZO.
[12]Inſtruct me to ſpeed better. I ſhall thank you.
MENTEVOLE.
My words, my action, ſhould have life and grace;
I'd probe his reaſon, try his every humour,
Wind to his inmoſt ſoul, grow to his eye,
Watch where impreſſion ſtole upon his ſenſe;
There ply my ſtrength, where moſt I found him weak,
Nor ceaſe to urge till I had conquer'd him.
DURAZZO.
Paſſion thus blindfold ſees no obſtacle.
Young man, young man, be calm a while, and hear me.
MENTEVOLE.
Yet tell me not, my ſuit is deſperate;
Sooth, though you cannot heal; and I will liſten,
As if I liv'd by every ſound you utter'd,
And death and inattention were the ſame.
DURAZZO.
You knew long ſince, to ſee my daughter wedded,
Without a variance 'twixt her choice and mine,
Was my prime wiſh. Malignant deſtiny
Marr'd that fair proſpect. The aſſaſſin's ſtab
Had almoſt pierc'd with one pernicious ſtroke
Two faithful breaſts. Anguiſh unutterable
On her ſoft frame lay'd ſuch a deadly graſp,
Too long I trembled for her life and reaſon.
MENTEVOLE.
Spare me, my lord, O ſpare me the remembrance;
It harrows me too deeply.
DURAZZO.
[13]Can you queſtion,
I wiſh to ſee her unavailing ſorrow
Chang'd to gay feſtivals, and bridal joy?
Or think you, that ſupinely I can view
(Thus childleſs, but in her,) my houſe's honours,
My large eſtates, ſunk in a virgin's tomb,
Or ſcatter'd 'mongſt remote and thankleſs kindred;
When, by alliance with your well-match'd love,
Such near and natural heirs may ſpring to bleſs me?
MENTEVOLE.
Why, grant it all, yet how have I prevail'd?
My preſence ſhe endures, for you deſir'd it;
Yet, if the only theme can touch me nearly,
But trembles from my tongue, her cheek turns pale;
Her blood runs back, as muſtering to her heart,
To fortify the acceſs more ſtrong againſt me.
I pity him, who thinks he has known diſtreſs,
And never felt the pang of hopeleſs love:
The conſummation of all other ills
Is light and trivial to that miſery.
DURAZZO.
Time may do much, nor ſhall my aid be wanting.
Urge me no more, nor doubt me. Your kind ſiſter,
Olympia, the companion ſhe holds dear,
May unobſerv'd watch every ſoft approach,
And ſteal a lover's image on her fancy.
But lo, ſhe comes. Farewel! I go to ſerve you.
Exit DURAZZO.
SCENE V.
[14]MENTEVOLE, alone.
He goes to ſerve me! Let his feeble breath
Turn ice to fire, wake in her frozen boſom
Such hot conſuming flames as I feel here!
O, I could ſluice my veins, mangle this form,
This common form, that wants the power to move her.
SCENE VI.
To him OLYMPIA.
Tell me, Olympia, are not women woo'd
By conſtancy, and deep-proteſted oaths?
By living on their ſmiles, by nice attentions?
By yielding up our reaſon to their humours?
By adoration of their beauty's power?
By ſighs, and tears, by flattery, kneeling, fawning?
Tell me how many ways a manly mind
Muſt be debas'd, to win a lady's ſmile?
OLYMPIA.
That which by baſeneſs only can be gain'd,
Were better undeſir'd. But ſay, good brother,
Why do you queſtion with ſuch angry haſte,
And what ſtrange fury ruffles all your mien?
Give me your hand: it burns. You are not well.
Your mind unquiet fevers thus your blood.
MENTEVOLE.
No, no: a woman's coldneſs. Your fair friend,—
Teach her to ſmile, and my diſtemper dies.
OLYMPIA.
She has no ſenſe of joy: that beauteous flower
Bows its ſweet head o'er Claudio's bloody grave.
MENTEVOLE.
[15]Muſt that eternal ſound grate on me ſtill!
Haſt thou been faithful to me? Haſt thou told her,
How thou haſt ſeen theſe lids, even at her name.
Swell with unbidden tides or melting fondneſs?
Whole nights how I have fill'd thy patient ear,
And ſhe my only theme? How many times,
When chance has given her beauties to my ſight,
Thou haſt beheld me, trembling, try to ſpeak,
And gaze away my meaning?
OLYMPIA.
Nay, my lord,
Endeavours true as mine diſdain ſuſpicion:
And let me ſay, if ſhe ſhould ne'er conſent,—
MENTEVOLE.
How's that? take heed! if ſhe ſhou'd ne'er conſent?
Put not my life on chilling ſuppoſition;
Make it the doubt, Olympia, of a moment,
And though thou art my ſiſter, and a dear one.
By heaven, I almoſt think that I ſhall hate thee:
For here I ſwear, deeply and calmly ſwear it,
The hour which ſees me deſperate of her love,
S [...]l be my laſt.
[...]LYMPIA.
For ſhame! be more a man.
MENTEVOLE.
By the great power which gave me ſenſe and being,
I'll wreſt from fate my folly's chaſtiſement,
And this right hand ſhall end me.
OLYMPIA.
Oh! how ſhocking,
To hear with what devout impiety,
[16]Thou dar'ſt call heaven the witneſs of an oath,
Outrageous to its own bleſs'd providence!
MENTEVOLE.
Well, be it as it may, I have ſworn it.
Knows ſhe that young Marcellus is arriv'd?
OLYMPIA.
Yes; and the pleaſing tidings for a moment
Diſpell'd the cloud that dim'd her beauteous eyes.
Inſtant ſhe beg'd me, and with warmth unuſual,
To bear her greetings to his mother Fulvia;
I now was on my way.
MENTEVOLE.
Then, bear thy meſſage;
Go, be the agent to deſtroy thy brother.
This compliment, I know, is but the prelude,
To invite a ſecond Claudio, in Marcellus.
OLYMPIA.
If peace be worth a wiſh, and love be ſuch
In every other boſom, as in thine,
Let the ſhort ſtory on my grave-ſtone tell,
"Nor loving, nor belov'd, Olympia died."
MENTEVOLE.
You never wiſh'd more wiſely: but forgive me:
Pardon my infirmity, 'tis too like madneſs.
OLYMPIA.
'Tis worſe, for madmen have their intervals;
Thine's an eternal rage.
going
MENTEVOLE.
[17]Go not in anger:
Return; I will be calm; return, Olympia.
Thus on my knee let me entreat you hear me.
offering to knee.
OLYMPIA.
Pray, riſe. We may be ſeen. What is't? go on.
MENTEVOLE.
I have a never-failing inſtinct here,
Which prompts me what to dread. This young Marcellus,—
OLYMPIA.
Well, what of him?
MENTEVOLE.
I know, will ſee her ſhortly▪
Crowd all thy faculties into thine eye;
Read his reception keenly; mark him too;
And give me note of every circumſtance:
Their words, their looks, let not a glance eſcape thee.
Promiſe me ſo, and from this hour, Olympia,
Thy prudence ſhall be my ſole counſellor:
Though you enjoin me to be blind and mute,
I'll bear it patient as the tutor'd child,
Whoſe fond inſtructor ſmiles, and teaches him.
OLYMPIA.
Keep theſe conditions, and command my ſervice.
I linger here too long.—Remember patience.
Exit OLYMPIA.
SCENE VII.
MENTEVOLE, alone.
And what more likely? He is Claudio's brother;
[18]Noble as he, and deck'd too with the plume
Of brave adventure in the Candian war;
Younger, and not leſs comely. She may call it
(As women make ſhrewd logick for their likings)
Truth to the memory of her former vows,
To embrace the living brother for the dead;
And ſo find faith in her inconſtancy.
I know not why, my genius ſhrinks at him:
The very fear craves vengeance, like a wrong.
Beware, gay ſtripling! no degenerate awe
Of what may be, can check my firy courſe:
She muſt be mine, and ſhall be. For the means,
Or good or ill, neceſſity muſt ſhape them.
THE END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
[19]SCENE I. A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace.
JULIA, alone at a Table, putting up papers which ſhe has been reading. She preſſes them paſſionately to her heart, kiſſes them, and ſpeaks.
Dear, ſad remembrances, my tears have ſtain'd you.
O, fooliſh drops, waſh not away my treaſure!
Unenvied, unobſerv'd, and ſolitary,
Let me indulge this luxury of grief.
My Claudio's ſoul was pour'd out on theſe papers;
And every little word recalls him to me,
Lovely, belov'd, in beauty's manly bloom,
Proteſting welcome vows, and breathing paſſion.
SCENE II.
To her OLYMPIA.
Return'd ſo ſpeedily, my gentle friend?
Your cares are ſo preventive of my wiſhes.
I ſhall begin to expect beyond all bounds,
And grow preſuming from too much indulgence.
OLYMPIA.
From Fulvia and her ſon I bring, my Julia,
A thouſand kind endearments. Both together
With cordial acceptation heard your meſſage,
And preſently both mean to viſit you.
JULIA.
Why does not pleaſure kindle through my frame,
And mount up to my cheek, at ſuch glad tidings?
The time has been, I ſhould have glow'd at this,
[20]Counting the impatient moments till her coming:—
But my repining heart deſerves no bleſſings.
OLYMPIA.
To labour to forget, I know, is vain;
The fond endeavour toils againſt itſelf,
And deeper graves the idea 'twould efface;
Yet there are means—
JULIA.
Unprofitable all.
How have I dragg'd about this weary load,
Through every change of place and circumſtance!
I mingled with the young, the gay, the happy;
Forcing a hollow ſmile at giddy joy,
While my pale heart ſat mocking it within:
The arrow ſticking here, from ſcene to ſcene
You led my ſad inſenſibility,
The objects varying, but my ſoul the ſame.
OLYMPIA.
Too much, I fear, we try'd, and you endur'd
Our well-meant, unavailing ſervices.
JULIA.
Could I forbear, I would not weep, Olympia;
Indeed I would not; for it pains my friends.
'Twas ſuch a black, unapprehended horrour,
So ſudden, and ſo dreadfully conſummate,
I ſometimes for a moment cloſe my eyes,
And ſtrive to think, I've had a hideous dream;
That, quite awake, 'twill vaniſh from my brain;
That, ſtill he lives, and I again ſhall ſee him:
Ah, no! the ſhort illuſion is the dream;
Claudio, thy death the dire reality.
OLYMPIA.
[21]The volume of his days too ſoon was clos'd;
But grace and honour had ſo fill'd the record,
Each page out-weigh'd a long life's hiſtory.
JULIA.
This was the hour, when my dear father came,
Trembling and pale, to falter out the tidings.
That inſtant, mighty ruler of our fates!
Had thy exterminating arm reach'd here,
Theſe floods of bitter tears, this black deſpair,
Had not beep number'd with the ſins of Julia.
OLYMPIA.
Tame languid minds, whoſe courſe glides dully on,
Yield, as the ſtream to the ſharp ſevering keel,
To cloſe as quickly on each tranſient wound;
But woe's deep traces never leave thy breaſt.
JULIA.
Was I not mad, Olympia? I remember,
I felt the ſtab in Genoa.—When I wak'd,
The place, nor aught around me, were the fame:
I ſaw the ſmooth Biſagnio, as I lay,
Rolling his quiet tide beneath my window;
It ſeem'd Elyſium, and the peaceful ſhades
Where guiltleſs lovers are no more divided.
OLYMPIA.
But now, my friend, collect your fortitude;
Nor ſtart, when you behold your Claudio's image
Recall'd to life, and blooming in Marcellus:
I know, he'll ſoon be here.
JULIA.
[22]Why ſhould I dread it?—
Diſus'd even to the ſhadow of a joy,
My fickly apprehenſion plays the coward:
Yet I will ſee him.
OLYMPIA.
You turn pale, my Julia;
Shall I forbid his coming?
JULIA.
No. This weakneſs
Will paſs away. A treacherous hectick waſtes me:
I ſhall not ſuffer long.—Is he to like,
So very like his brother?
OLYMPIA.
Features, ſtature,
Almoſt the ſame. Somewhat a bolder air,
Yet gentle ſtill; and (youthful as he is)
A little frown of diſcontented thought
Caſts o'er his brow a momentary ſhade,
That ſeems not native to his generous aſpect.
JULIA.
In ſuch an aſpect was my paradiſe.
But now pale lead lies on that mouldering face:
Whoſe beams ſhot rapture once to Julia's boſom.
OLYMPIA.
By nature fram'd for every genial bliſs,
Turn, gently turn, from that cold retroſpect!
And there is one—
JULIA.
I know whom you would name.
OLYMPIA.
[23]Then ſmile, and name him for me.
JULIA.
No, I cannot;
I cannot ſmile, and name Mentevole:
But yet, I much reſpect him.
OLYMPIA.
Bare reſpect
For paſſion ſuch as his!
JULIA.
Olympia, ſpare me;
In this alone I muſt ſeem obſtinate.
OLYMPIA.
Alas, poor brother!
aſide.
JULIA.
Hark! my father comes;
Hold him a little moment in diſcourſe;
I would not have him ſee I had been weeping.
JULIA retires a little.
SCENE III.
To JULIA and OLYMPIA, DURAZZO.
DURAZZO.
I come, Olympia, to this chamber door,
To learn my deſtiny. As we inquire
From thoſe who wake us, if the ſun looks bright,
Or clouds obſcure him, and then ſuit our garments
To meet the changeful temper of the ſky,
So, by the colour of my daughter's health,
My mind is dreſs'd for gladneſs or dejection.
OLYMPIA.
[24]I think, ſhe mends. Her ſorrow, that was ſilent,
Finds ſome relief in utterance. She approaches.
JULIA.
Your bleſſing, ſir!
DURAZZO.
O, may it drop upon thee,
Refreſhing as mild dews on vernal flowers,
To kill the canker that conſumes thy fragrance!
JULIA.
My heart, my grateful heart, owns all your goodneſs;
And could my firſt devotion reach the ſky,
Time and your honour'd days ſhould end together.
DURAZZO.
Not too long life, pray not for curſes on me!
Helpleſs, uncomely, loath'd, and burdenſome,
I would not cling to the laſt hold of nature,
Nor lag without one ſocial cord to aid me.
Surviving my companions of the voyage,
The world to me would ſeem a ruin'd veſſel,
A worthleſs wreck, when mann'd alone by ſtrangers.
Let my heart burſt at once with ſome great feeling!
Let me go all together to my grave,
Not maim'd and piece-meal with infirmity!—
I have liv'd enough, could I but ſee thee happy.
JULIA.
That will not be.
DURAZZO.
I ſwear, it muſt, it ſhall be;
And come, I have a ſuit which you muſt grant me.
JULIA.
[25]My deareſt father!
throwing her arms round him.
DURAZZO.
Change theſe mourning weeds:
For outward ſigns, though trifles in themſelves,
When the mind's weak, and ſpirits delicate,
To fancy, in herſelf too powerful,
Lend their mute aid, and make her workings ſtronger.
JULIA.
This habit was beſt ſuited to my mood,
But ſhall no more offend you.
DURAZZO.
Fair Olympia,
I now muſt beg your aid. Your conſtant brother,
(Nor does proud Genoa boaſt a nobler youth,)
With adoration ſuch as ſaints pay heaven,
Devotes his ſervice here.
JULIA.
Ah ſir, for pity!
I feel myſelf not worthy of his paſſion.
My ſoul is out of tune to flattery:
The fondeſt vows that ever lover ſigh'd,
Might wring my eyes, but never warm my heart.
DURAZZO.
Nay, ſtop theſe tears; I'll urge this theme no more.
And ſee, an honour'd viſitant approaches;
Receive her not in ſorrow.
SCENE IV.
[26]To them FULVIA; MARCELLUS behind. JULIA and FUL⯑VIA embrace.
FULVIA.
Lovely Julia,
In this embrace I hop'd to have claſp'd a daughter;
To have call'd thee mine, by an endearing tie,
That yields alone to nature's cloſeſt bond:
But though that fleet deluſive dream is vaniſh'd,
With pride I own thy native excellence.
Theſe eager throbbings, while I hold thee thus,
Are ſtronger proteſtations how I prize thee,
Than all the laviſh praiſe my tongue could utter.
JULIA.
Here let me grow for ever, none divide us!
Methinks, when theſe protecting arms enfold me,
Long-vaniſh'd peace ſeems to return once more,
And ſpread her dove-like wings again to ſhield me.
MARCELLUS.
They told me truth, I never ſaw ſuch beauty.
aſide, looking at JULIA.
FULVIA.
Vile ſlander, on my life, has wrong'd her virtue.—
aſide,
Have I not ſeem'd unkind, ſo many months
A ſtranger here, where ever-new delight
Sprung in our paths; where each returning morn,
Among the happy, found me happieſt?
But O, I fear'd for thee, and for myſelf;
Our walks, theſe chambers, every ſenſeleſs object,
[27]By known relation to our common loſs,
Had conjur'd up to our accuſtom'd ſenſe
Sad viſions of his looks, his geſtures, words,
And multiplied the ideas we ſhould baniſh.
JULIA.
I judg'd it not unkindneſs, for I know
Your generous nature feels for all who ſuffer.
And if to have been once ſupremely bleſs'd,
To have reach'd the height of every human wiſh,
Then ſudden—but your ſwelling eyes reproach me.
You own'd him firſt, before his birth you lov'd him;
But O, this ſelfiſh grief forgets all titles.
FULVIA.
Yet join with me to bleſs that providence,
Which bending gracious to a parent's prayer,
'Midſt all the perils of deſtructive war,
Preſerv'd one pillar of my falling houſe.
Come near, my ſon; and in this fair perfection.
Behold, what, next to thee, the world contains
Moſt precious to thy mother.
MARCELLUS, who has been behind with DURAZZO, advances.
JULIA.
Saints and angels!
ſtarting.
Am I awake, or is this mockery?
O, I could gaze for ever on that face,
Nor wiſh to rouſe me from the dear deluſion.
Still let me know him only by my eyes!
O, do not ſpeak, leſt ſome unuſual ſound,
An alien to my ear, diſſolve this viſion,
And tell me thou but wear'ſt my Claudio's outſide!
MARCELLUS.
[28]If it commend me, Madam, to your favour,
I would not change it for the comlieſt form
That ever charm'd the eye with fair proportion.
But ſtop not at the exterior, ſearch me deeply;
For proof, command me inſtant to your ſervice:
Though peril walk with death in the achievement,
Swifter than falcons through the trackleſs air
My eager thoughts ſhall fly to your obedience.
JULIA.
Take heed, take heed, tempt not the dangerous ſhore;
Rocks, ſhelves, and quickſands lurk, I fear, around me;
And let one gallant veſſel's ſhipwreck warn thee,—
Shun the ſame courſe, and find a happier fortune.
MARCELLUS.
I fear no ſhelves, no quickſands, but thy frown.
Aw'd and enraptur'd I behold ſuch beauty;
And while I talk thus, wiſh to find ſome language
Fit for a being of a ſphere above me.
A Servant enters, and whiſpers OLYMPIA.
OLYMPIA.
Julia, a word. Mentevole attends,
to JULIA aſide.
And aſks to be admitted.
JULIA.
Now! Not now;
Indeed I cannot ſee him. Quick, my Olympia.
Prevent his entrance. My poor fluttering heart,
(If ſuddenly that name is founded to me,)
Beats, like a priſon'd bird againſt its cage,
When ſome annoying hand is ſtretch'd to ſeize it.
DURAZZO.
[29]Madam, this day which brings you back to us,
to FULVIA.
We ſhould make feſtival. Your preſence here
Has wrought a miracle. I have not ſeen
A ſmile of joy enlighten that dear face,
Heaven knows how long, till you brought ſunſhine with you.
FULVIA.
I have upbraidings for my abſence, here;
The cauſe, I'm ſure, a falſe one. In atonement,
Let me obſerve her with a mother's care.
Invention ſhall be rack'd to find new means,
To lure her thoughts to ſweet ſerenity.
She ſhall not ſee the frequent tears that wear
Their woeful channel down a parent's cheeks;
And to the brighteſt ſource of mortal comfort,
I will commend her, when I kneel to heaven.
DURAZZO.
May plumes of ſeraphs waft your pious prayers!
The tenderneſs of women has a charm,
Our rougher natures can attain but rudely.
Your voices are ſuch dulcet inſtruments,
They ſteal the liſtening ſoul from its affliction,
To wind it gently in the ſoft enchantment.
FULVIA.
O, may that power be mine! Obſerve, my Julia,
My lord commits you to my guardianſhip;
Do you confirm the truſt?
JULIA.
An outcaſt's fortune
A light pitileſs fall on me, could I fail
To bend with reverence for your dear protection.
FULVIA.
[30]Come, let us hence; the air is mild abroad.
Julia, we muſt not ſink, but ſtrive to baniſh
That reſtleſs inbred foe to the afflicted,
Reflection, from our boſoms.
JULIA.
Would, I could!
But death's long ſleep alone can baniſh him.
Exeunt all but MARCELUS.
MARCELLUS.
My ſoul and all its faculties go with her:
looking after JULIA.
Grace, beauty, ſweetneſs, all that captivates,
And holds us long in dear delicious bonds,
Indiſſoluble bonds, for time too ſtrong,
For change, or caſualty, are ſumm'd up there.
Divinity of love, abſolute maſter,
From this white hour, to thy all-potent ſway
Thus I ſubmit me: hence, all idle thoughts,
I chaſe you forth. Full-plum'd ambition, glory,
Arms, and the war, farewel! Her brighter image
Claims all my boſom, and diſdains a rival.
Exit.
SCENE VI. A Place before Durazzo's Palace.
MENTEVOLE, with a letter; and a Servant.
Convey this letter to the lady Fulvia;
Be muffled cloſe, and cloak'd, that none may know you:
Speak not a word, but leave it, and return.
Exit Servant
Pride and ſuſpicion, in her violent temper,
From this ſhort ſcroll will work rare miſchief for me;
One ſpark will ſet her paſſions in a blaze:
A hint to her is proof demonſtrative.—
[31]So,—I muſt bear this too; ſhe will not ſee me,
Her health is delicate. But young Marcellus,
He fits a lady's chamber at all ſeaſons;
Soft as Favonius,—and a cherub's cheek
Is not ſo ſmooth and roſy. Precious minion!
They think me ſure a tame enduring ſlave,
A trampled clod: they ſhall not find me ſuch.
The ſcanty drop which once was patience here,
Flames as it flows, and kindles all my nature
To its own element of tire within me.
Ha! he appears. Choke me not, indignation!
Prey inwards! down! while I diſſemble calmneſs.
MENTEVOLE retires a little.
SCENE VII.
MARCELLUS enters, looking back.
Ay, there's the attraction. Thou unconſcious houſe,
Thy turrets ſhould be caſed with beaten gold;
For thou enſhrin'ſt a goddeſs.—Can it be?
Not three years paſs'd, regardleſs of her charms
Day after day I ſaw her, and forgot them.
Or does the beauty of the full-blown roſe
Surpaſs the promiſe of the opening bud?
I ſure lov'd Claudio well; no brother's bond
Was truer to a brother; yet ſelf! ſelf!
This ſudden flower now ſprings up from his grave,
That in a brother lies a rival buried.
MENTEVOLE.
advances.
My lord, well met. You then have ſeen this wonder.
Has fame exceeded, think you?
MARCELLUS.
How exceeded?
MENTEVOLE.
[32]Spoke Julia fairer than your eyes confeſs her?
MARCELLUS.
All eyes, all hearts, with rapture muſt confeſs her.
MENTEVOLE.
Then I muſt think, you do not mean to pine
In ſilent adoration?
MARCELLUS.
What bleſs'd ſtrain
Can touch that gentle boſom?
MENTEVOLE.
Take my counſel;
Devote thy ſoul to any thing but love;
Steep thy drench'd ſenſes in the mad'ning bowl;
Heap gold, and hug the mammon for itſelf;
Set provinces on dice; o'er the pale lamp
Of ſickly ſcience waſte thy vigorous youth;
Ruſh to the war, or cheer the deep-tongu'd hound;
Be thou the proverb'd ſlave of each, or all;
They ſhall not be ſo noxious to thy ſoul,
As dainty woman's love.
MARCELLUS.
If this be counſel,
It comes with ſuch a harſh and boiſterous breath,
I more diſcern the freedom, than the friendſhip.
MENTEVOLE.
Falſly our poets deck the barbarous god
With roſeat hue, with infants' dimpling ſmiles,
With wanton curls, and wings of downy gold:—
He dips his darts in poiſonous aconite;
[33]The firy venom rankles in our veins,
Infuſes rage, and murderous cruelty.
MARCELLUS.
The richeſt juice pour'd in a tainted jar,
Turns to a nauſeous and unwholeſome draught,
But we condemn the veſſel, not the wine;
So gentle love, lodg'd in a ſavage breaſt,
May change his nature to a tyger's fierceneſs.
MENTEVOLE.
Away with vain diſguiſe! Mark me, my lord,
I long have lov'd this lady with a paſſion,
Too quick and jealous, not to find a rival,
Too fierce to brook him. She receives my vows;
Her father favours them. Wealth, titles, honour,
My rank in the ſtate, and many fair additions
(Surpaſs'd by none) keep buoyant my full hopes.
If yet your heart's untouch'd, I aſk, entreat it,
(And ſtrangers grant ſuch common courteſies,)
Forbear your viſits to her.
MARCELLUS.
Believe this;
Were there a faſting lion in my path,
I'd rather this good ſteel here by my ſide
Should grow one piece with the ſheath, or in my graſp
Shrink to a bulruſh, but to mock the wielder,
Than feed you with the ſmalleſt hope or promiſe
I mean, not to fulfil.
MENTEVOLE.
Then we are [...]oes.
MARCELLUS.
I'm ſorry for't.
MENTEVOLE.
[34]Deadly, irreconcilable.
Two eager racers ſtarting for one goal,
Both cannot win, but ſhame muſt find the loſer.
You ſtep between me, and the light of heaven,
You ſtrive to rob me of my life's beſt hope,
(For life without her were my curſe, my burden,)
With cruel calmneſs you pluck out my heart;
Therefore, were the world's bounds more wide and large,
They could not hold us both.
MARCELLUS.
I little thought
To draw my ſword againſt my brother's friend;
And here atteſt heaven, and my peaceful ſoul,
You drag this quarrel on me.
MENTEVOLE.
Yonder herd,
Who prying now would interrupt our purpoſe,
Will two hours hence be hous'd, to avoid the ſun,
Then riding at his height; at home I'll wait you,
And lead you thence to a ſequeſter'd ſpot,
Fit for the mortal iſſue of our meeting.
MARCELLUS.
Since you will have it ſo,—
MENTEVOLE.
The die is caſt.
Have I the bulk, and ſinewy ſtrength of man,
But to ſuſtain a heavier injury?
Let cowards ſhiver with a ſmother'd hate,
And fear the evil, valour might avert:
The brave man's sword ſecures his deſtiny.
Exeunt ſeverally.
THE END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
[35]SCENE I. A Garden, behind Mentevole's houſe.
MENTEVOLE alone, on a garden ſeat, looking at a picture.
And muſt I be content with thee, poor ſhadow?
Yet ſhe's leſs kind than this her counterfeit,
For this looks pleas'd, and ſeems to ſmile upon me.
O, what a form is here! her poliſh'd front,
Blue ſlender veins, winding their ſilken maze,
Through fleſh of living ſnow. Young Hebe's hue,
Bluſhing ambroſial health. Her plenteous treſſes,
Luxuriant beauty! Thoſe bewitching eyes,
That ſhot their ſoft contagion to my ſoul;—
But where's their varied ſweetneſs? Where the fire
To drive men wild with paſſion to their ruin?
Where are her gentle words? the dewy breath
Balming the new-blown roſes 'tis exhaled through?
Thou envious happy lawn, hide thoſe white orbs
That ſwell beneath thy folds! O power of beauty,
If thou canſt ſanctify—By heaven, my ſiſter:—
riſe.
Up fair perdition!
attempting haſtily to put up the picture, he drops it on the ground.
SCENE II.
To him, OLYMPIA,
'Twas not well, Olympia,
To break thus on my privacy. My orders
Were ſtrictly given that none ſhould now have entrance.
OLYMPIA.
I would not be deny'd; and when you know
[36]Why I am here, you will have cauſe to bleſs,
Not chide me for the intruſion.
MENTEVOLE.
Then be quick;
For other cares, and of more ſerious import,
Will preſently demand me. Speak your purpoſe.
OLYMPIA.
My lips would give my purpoſe little grace,
When ſhe, who ſent me forward but to find you,
Can ſpeak it for herſelf, I came with Julia.
MENTEVOLE.
With Julia? Do not mock me.
OLYMPIA.
Turn your eyes
To yonder cypreſs, ſee who there expects you.
MENTEVOLE.
By all my hopes of happineſs 'tis ſhe:
Like a deſcended angel there ſhe ſtands.
OLYMPIA.
Herſelf indeed; then haſte, conduct her hither.
MENTEVOLE ruſhes out.
SCENE III.
OLYMPIA ſees, and take up the picture.
Ay, as I thought, her picture. On this face
His eyes were fed, when my approach ſurpris'd him.
Thou fair conſumer of his pining ſoul,
O, thou delicious poiſon, for a while,
[37]Though he may grieve, let me withhold thee from him!
With what a blaze of wealth has he adorn'd it!
What gems are here! I'll leave it in her ſight;
This ſilent proof ſhould more commend his ſuit,
Than hot-breath'd vows, whoſe common vehemence
Their common violation quickly follows.
SCENE IV.
To OLYMPIA, MENTEVOLE, leading in JULIA.
JULIA.
Well may you be ſurpris'd, nor can you queſtion,
When you behold me here, how deep the intereſt
That urges me to ſeek you.
MENTEVOLE.
To behold you,
(Whate'er the cauſe) is ſuch exceſs of bliſs,
How, how ſhall I pour out my enraptur'd ſenſe,
How thank this condeſcenſion?
JULIA.
Good my lord,
The anxious boſom, ill at eaſe like mine,
Partakes no raptures. Calmneſs and attention,
(If I deſerve your thanks,) will better thank me.
MENTEVOLE.
Thou ſoul of all my paſſions! this fond breaſt
Is but the obedient inſtrument, whoſe chords,
As you think meet, ſound high, or ſink to ſilence.
JULIA.
I have heard of your late outrage to Marcellus.
MENTEVOLE.
[38]Has he complain'd, and to a lady's ear?
JULIA.
Wrong not his well-tried courage. No; the attendants
Saw all your furious geſtures, heard your challenge;
And, for prevention, to Olympia ran,
To alarm us of the danger.
OLYMPIA.
He's conceal'd,
And has been ſince your parting. That confirms it.
JULIA.
Waſte not the precious minutes in denial.
MENTEVOLE.
Fool that I was! no kind concern for me,
The ſafety of Marcellus, made you ſeek me
JULIA.
And I avow the motive. Am I held,
Like thoſe grim idols barbarous nations worſhip,
By cruel rites to be propitiated?
If love prevail not, dreſs'd in ſmiles and ſoftneſs,
Array'd in blood will the fell monſter charm me?
No; if you prize my peace, it you deſire
I ever more ſhould name Mentevole,
Or ſuffer him in thought, but with abhorrence,
Diſmiſs your cauſeleſs hate to Claudio's brother.
MENTEVOLE.
Let him diſmiſs his love to Claudio's miſtreſs.
JULIA.
Your own, imaginary, light ſuggeſtion
[39]He boaſts it, glories in it. Cauſeleſs hate!
Cauſeleſs, to hate the envenom'd thing that ſtings me?
Diſeaſes curdle up his youthful blood,
And mar his ſpecious outſide!
JULIA.
Watchful angels,
Keep him in charge, and o'er his gallant head
Spread their protecting wings, to avert thy curſes!
MENTEVOLE.
Ha! am I then—
OLYMPIA.
Is this your promis'd patience?
MENTEVOLE.
What can I do?
JULIA.
What reaſon bids you do.
Not to repent, but to commit a wrong,
Gives ſhame's true crimſon to the ingenuous cheek.
Aſk his indulgence, and confeſs your frenzy.
MENTEVOLE.
The boy may think I fear him.
JULIA.
No, not ſo.
What generous ſpirit is not ſlow to aſcribe
Motives to others, which itſelf would ſcorn?
Are you alone too mighty to have err'd?
Rather ſuſpect, your pride revolts to own it;
Acknowledge it, and then have cauſe for pride,
And riſe exalted by humility.
[40]Contrition is fair virtue's meek-ey'd ſiſter;
Her drops can waſh offence to fleecy white,
Turning our ſins to gracious interceſſors.
The wiſeſt ſometimes may do wrong from paſſion;
But conſcious of that wrong, the ruffian only,
By brutal perſeverance, twice does wrong:
Mean pride! falſe principle! true honour ſcorns them.
MENTEVOLE.
It goes againſt my nature's bent.
JULIA.
Indeed!
Then hear me, hear this ſolemn proteſtation:
If you perſiſt, by that benevolent power,
Whoſe bleſſed beams avert from violence,
Whoſe law forbids it,—
MENTEVOLE.
O, enough; forbear
Yes, you ſhall be obey'd; I will put on
The meek demeanour of repenting raſhneſs;
And to the foe I hate, thus bending, cry,
Forgive me, ſince you will it. Yet remember,
I thus degrade me in mine own eſteem,
Only to riſe in yours. Your liberal nature
Will give my free compliance its beſt gloſs.
It ſhews your full dominion o'er my ſoul,
That joyfully prefers your leaſt command,
Even to my honour, which I riſk to obey you.
JULIA.
The act beſpeaks itſelf. I muſt remember,
My peace, or miſery, was in your power:
You choſe the gentler part, and made me happy.
MENTEVOLE.
[41]Tranſporting thought! behold, I fly to meet him.
The hour is come. Marcellus now expects me.
Farewel! my eyes, at variance with my tongue,
Still gaze, and cannot bear to loſe thy beauties.
Exit MENTEVOLE.
SCENE V.
JULIA, OLYMPIA.
OLYMPIA.
Indeed he loves you.
JULIA.
'Would to heaven he did not!
It looks, methinks, like hard ingratitude,
To render aught for love, but equal love.
Eſteem, the beſt affection I can offer,
Seems but a dull, unvalued counterpoiſe,
And pays the glowing ore with worthleſs lead.
Though all be little, to give all, is bounty.
Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Enter, at an oppoſite ſide, MARCELLUS and MENTEVOLE.
MARCELLUS.
Enough, my lord. This fair acknowledgment
Has rais'd your juſtice high in my eſteem.
A ſoldier's honour can require no more;
And ſure, tis better, thus to join our hands,
Than try their ſtrength in rude hoſtility.
MENTEVOLE.
I was your brother's friend; and while he liv'd,
[42]Though the ſame paſſion that ſtill fires my ſoul,
Then fiercely burn'd for this enchanting Julia;
Yet, from reſpect for his precedent claim,
And to her choice avow'd, within my breaſt
I kept the painful ſecret. He ſo lov'd me,
The wound he could not heal, I would not ſhew:
Then ſure, full equally, from you, Marcellus,
New to her charms, at leaſt I may expect
A like declining.
MARCELLUS.
Good Mentevole,
Let's find ſome ſafer ſubject.
MENTEVOLE.
No, this only.
I cannot ſpeak, or think, of aught but her:
She is my eſſence; feeds, wakes, ſleeps, with me;
Is vital to me as the air I breathe.
But mark, I am compos'd; no violence
Lives in my thoughts, or ſhall diſgrace my tongue.
MARCELLUS.
Then, leſt I move your temper, let me leave you.
MENTEVOLE.
No, pr'ythee no, not thus unſatisfied.
I'll not contend, but her tranſcendent beauty,
Even at firſt ſight, muſt ſtrike the gazer's eye
With admiration, which might grow to love.
But is it poſſible, one interview,
(For you but once have ſeen her,) ſhould ſo root
Her image in your ſoul, that all your bliſs,
Or future miſery, depends on her?
MARCELLES.
[43]Regard not me, but reaſon for yourſelf.
If all your faithful vows, your length of courtſhip,
Her father's favour, and the nameleſs aids
Which time and opportunity have furniſh'd,
Raiſe not your hopes above a rival's power;
Say, were it not more wiſe, and manly too,
To rouſe, and ſhake off ſuch a hard dominion?
MENTEVOLE.
How cold you talk? Good heaven! I might as well
Reſolve to change my nature; bid my ear
See for my eye, or turn my blood to milk;
New-ſtamp my features, and new-mould my limbs;
Make this ſoft fleſh, that yields to every print,
Impaſſive as thin air; waſte time and thought
On any wild impoſſibility;
As be the thing I am, and ceaſe to love her.
MARCELLUS.
Then take, my lord, your courſe, while I ſhall follow
The counſel which I offer. Once rejected,
No more to perſecute, where moſt I love,
I ſhall retire, and mourn repulſe in ſilence.
MENTEVOLE.
So then, my lord, my ſuit is perſecution?
MARCELLUS.
I ſaid it not; but ſince you will ſearch further,
I've heard almoſt as much.
MENTEVOLE.
And who inform'd you?
MARCELLUS.
[44]A lower tone, perhaps, may meet an anſwer.
MENTEVOLE.
I will be anſwered.
MARCELLUS.
Will!—hot man, farewell!
going.
MENTEVOLE.
Come back. I'll anſwer for you. Your own pride;—
MARCELLUS.
Ha! have a care!
MENTEVOLE.
Your boyiſh vanity;
Your fond conceit of that impoſing form;—
MARCELLUS.
I'll bear no more; this inſolence and rudeneſs
Have rous'd my rage, and thus I anſwer thee.
They fight. MENTEVOLE is diſarmed.
MENTEVOLE.
My life is yours. Strike home.
ſhewing his breaſt.
MARCELLUS.
Take back your ſword;
And when your peeviſh ſpleen next ſwells within you,
Let this deſerv'd rebuke ſubdue your choler.
Exit MARCELLUS.
SCENE VII.
MENTEVOLE, alone.
He triumphs every way, Vile baffled wretch!
[45]Where ſhall I hide my ignominious head,
While love, remorſe, and rage, at once o'erwhelm me.
Exit MENTEVOLE.
SCENE VIII. A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace, with a toilet, &c.
OLYMPIA, with a picture in her hand; NERINA attending ▪
OLYMPIA.
The danger's paſs'd, and Julia ſmiles again.
My brother, thy divining was too true;
Her fears were not for thee. But now, to try
This new, this laſt expedient.—Good Nerina.
Obſerve this picture. This day, in his garden,
Mentevole, my enamour'd brother, dropp'd it.
It is the lovely likeneſs of thy lady.
I leave it here. Should it eſcape her view,
Find you ſome means to bring it to her notice.
If prodigality proclaim a paſſion,
The diadems of kings are here outluſter'd.
And yet I fear—The mother of Marcellus:—
Her eye looks cold upon me. I'll not meet her.
OLYMPIA hangs the picture on the frame of JULIA's dreſſing-glaſs, and exit. NERINA retires.
SCENE IX.
FULVIA, with a paper.
What can this mean? They draw me here to inſult me.
I aſk for this diſconſolate, this mourner,
And find her, where? Why, with a ſecond lover,
With young Mentevole. Her panting boſom
Cannot expect his viſit, bur explores
[46]His chambers ſecretly. O my poor ſon!
And could not all thy graces, all thy virtues,
One twelvemonth, keep a miſtreſs faithful to thee?
The Indian pile, that, with the bridegroom dead,
In the ſame blaze conſumes his life-warm bride,
Is wild romance to our Italian ladies.—
Who cheers our inconſolable in private?
Why, the kind ſiſter of Mentevole.
Then rumour, which I ſlander'd, told me truth,
And
this tells truth. Let me once more peruſe it.
reads.
If you reſpect the ſafety of Marcellus,
Prevent his viſits to Durazzo's daughter.
A favour'd lover has her plighted faith,
Who will not brook a rival. Truſt this warning.
And ſee, the fair diſſimulation comes,
Again to ſigh, to flatter,—and deceive me.
SCENE X.
To her, JULIA.
JULIA.
Madam, forgive my anxiety: that paper,—
I hope it brought you no diſtreſsful tidings.
When your eye ran it o'er, your colour chang'd,
And a ſad preſage inſtant ſeiz'd my heart,
Fearful perhaps from weakneſs, more than reaſon.
FULVIA.
I thank you, no; the import is not new;
It tells me, what the world has long believ'd,
That women can diſſemble, and are ſickle.
JULIA.
[47]But why chooſe you for the rude confidence?
FULVIA.
I fear, there was a reaſon.
JULIA.
Pardon me;
Perhaps I've been intruſive; for that brow
Seems to reprove me, for a wiſh to know,
What you think fit to hide.
FULVIA.
My intereſts, madam,
Muſt henceforth be confin'd to my own breaſt.
I have no ſunſhine there; and would not cloud
The cheerful proſpect of your coming joys
With ill-tim'd ſorrow.
JULIA.
Have I Joys to come?—
To mix my grief with yours; dejected, loſt,
To keep one object in my wounded mind;
To hold diſcourſe with his ideal form;
To make my preſent ſtate, my future hope,
Fears, wiſhes, prayers, all ſtudies of my life,
But ſlaves to one afflicting memory;
Theſe are my joys, and who ſhall envy them?
FULVIA.
Hateful hypocriſy! O ten times devil,
aſide.
When, to beguile, at wears an angel's outſide!
Turning from JULIA, ſhe ſees the picture on the table.
Ha! can I truſt my ſight? What's this before me?
JULIA.
[48]What's this, indeed?
FULVIA.
It curdles up my blood
The very ſame; I know theſe precious gems,
Bought with ſuch coſt: the eaſt was ranſack'd for them.
How came it here?
JULIA.
By all my tears and ſorrows,
My murder'd Claudio, on the day we loſt him,
Wore this around his neck.
FULVIA.
He did, he did.
JULIA.
He ſhew'd it to me; next his heart it hung
That fatal morning. By what means unknown,
What wond'rous magick I again behold it,
Confounds me with amazement.
NERINA.
advancing.
Madam, hear me.
In part I can explain the myſtery.
Olympia, but a little ere you enter'd,
Thus plac'd it on the table. bade me mark it,
And ſhould it chance to eſcape my lady's eye,
Preſent it to her notice. In his garden,
This morn, (ſhe added) Lord Mentevole,
Her brother, dropp'd it. But I know no further.
FULVIA.
Dropp'd by Mentevole! his ſiſter ſaid ſo?
NERINA.
[49]Madam, ſhe did.
FULVIA.
to JULIA.
Ha! did you hear that tale?
JULIA.
Eternal providence! 'twill then be found;
The helliſh deed be traced to its dark ſource.
O true-divining inſtinct! now I know,
Why, at his ſight, oppreſs'd with chilling horrour,
Cold tremörs crept through all my ſhivering frame;
Why faithful nature, ſhrinking, felt the alarm,
As if ſome fatal deadly thing approach'd me.
Haſte, madam, haſte! that clue ſhall be our guide.
Yes, I ſhall live to ſee the black detection;
The ſecret villain's ſhame, blood ſhed for blood;
While Claudio's ſainted ſpirit from above
Smiles to applaud, and urge the righteous juſtice.
FULVIA.
Can I bear this! Such zeal is worthy of you,
It quite tranſports you. But firſt anſwer me,
How did Mentevole poſſeſs this picture?
JULIA.
O, 'would I knew!—But let us fly this moment.—
FULVIA.
Did you not ſecretly, this morning, ſee him?
Anſwer me quick.
JULIA.
I did. Of that hereafter.
FULVIA.
Hold, When a lover has a lady's picture,
[50]A favour'd lover too, though ſhe ſhould ſwear,
Swear deeply, till the hoſt of heaven bluſh for her,
She's ignorant how he had it, O, to truſt her,
Aſks ſuch a reach of blind credulity,
As turns belief to folly.
JULIA.
Your fierce looks,
This ſudden anger, are ſo ſtrange to me,
I ſtand like one juſt ſtartled from a dream,
And cannot, dare not, think, I wake and hear you.
FULVIA.
Then let me rouſe you from your lethargy.
The flimſy tiſſue of your artifice
Is all unravell'd. By no doubtful proofs
I am confirm'd,—your fondneſs for my ſon,
Your tender care of me, your tears, diſtractions,
Your mourning weeds, (which now, I ſee, are chang'd,)
Ay, and your high-wrought rhapſody this moment,
Were all a publick oſtentatious ſorrow,
Nought but an acted paſſion, a ſtage tranſport;
And I, the fool who pitied you, your ſcorn.
Do you now wake? Now do you underſtand me?
JULIA.
Too well, too well. The peal of dreadful thunder
Will ſound till death in my aſtoniſh'd ears.
O, ſtab me to the heart, daſh me to earth,
And trample my poor body in the duſt;
Try every labour'd, cunning cruelty,
That rage, revenge, or malice, e'er deviſed,
Or was ſuſtain'd by woman's conſtancy;
I'll bear it all,—I would not ſhed one tear;
[51]Would bleſs you, think it mercy, to the pangs
Which wring my ſoul from every word you have utter'd.
FULVIA.
And may the fiend who viſits guilt like thine,
If my reproaches fail, or the world's juſtice,
Supply a ſharper ſcourge, and more afflict thee!
JULIA.
I thought the rigour of my fate accompliſh'd
By Claudio's death; ſecure in one great woe,
Look'd forward with a ſmile to all the ills
Adverſity's worſt wrath could pour upon me:
But you, inhuman! you have found the way,
To wake ſuch new, ſuch unimagin'd horrours!—
If there be any power, whoſe melting eye
Sheds ſoft compaſſion on us, may that power
Hear, and receive my fervent ſupplication;
Let me be mad, and loſe this ſenſe of anguiſh!
FULVIA.
What can'ſt thou hope from me, but rage and vengeance?
JULIA.
No, nothing elſe, I have deſerv'd them from thee.
FULVIA.
I'll to the duke, the ſenate ſhall aſſemble.
When this dumb evidence appears before them,
With all that chance has now reveal'd againſt thee,
Think, when thou art ſummon'd to their dread tribunal,
Will that fair face of innocence and wonder,
This wringing of thy hands, a few falſe tears,
Shake their ſtern juſtice?
JULIA.
[52]O, heaven pardon you!
FULVIA.
If you have prayers, reſerve them for yourſelf,
Your ſtate perhaps may need them.
JULIA.
kneeling,
Turn, and hear me!
FULVIA.
Kneel not to me.
JULIA.
I kneel not for myſelf.
To thee I am as ſpotleſs from offence
As the ſoft ſleep of cradled infancy.
But when your cruelty has broke my heart,
And ſunk me unreſenting to my grave,
If your miſtaken rage gives way to reaſon,
(As ſure it will,) in that calm, ſearching hour,
When you ſhall find how ſorely you have wrong'd me,
Wrong'd her, who lov'd you with a child's affection,
Then cenſure not your raſhneſs too ſeverely;
Then try to reconcile your ſoul to peace,
And O, forgive yourſelf, as I forgive you.
SCENE XI.
To them, DURAZZO.
DURAZZO.
How's this? my daughter kneeling, and in tears!
And anger glowing on the cheek of Fulvia!
Riſe, Julia, riſe.—Madam, that ſtern regard—
JULIA.
[53]O, ſir, you muſt not pity, nor approach me;
I dare not truſt to nature or affection:
Your breaſt perhaps may turn to marble too.
Source of my life! dear even as thee, my father,
Your Julia lov'd her:—See theſe bitter tears;
With agonies like theſe am I requited.
DURAZZO.
A fury's brand muſt ſure have ſear'd the breaſt,
That could give thee a pang, my joy! my comfort!—
What have you done?
to FULVIA.
FULVIA.
Do you behold this picture?
Claudio my ſon, the day the aſſaſſin ſtabb'd him,
Wore this deteſted bawble next his heart.
Mentevole, that weeping lady's lover,
This morning dropp'd it. Aſk you, how he had it,
Let that light woman, and her minion, anſwer.
DURAZZO.
And is that ſcornful finger for my daughter?
Injurious as thou art—
JULIA.
For pity, hold!
I have enough of miſery already,
Revil'd, upbraided, charg'd with monſtrous guilt;
She knew not what ſhe ſaid,—indeed I hope ſo;
But let me here fall lifeleſs at her feet,
My heaving heart burſt with its throbs before her,
Rather than hear your tongue caſt back reproach,
To violate the reverence I ſtill owe her.
DURAZZO.
[54]Hear'ſt thou, inhuman?
FULVIA.
Yes, with ſcorn I hear her;
That ſyren's voice has loſt the power to charm.
Why ſtay I here to breathe the infectious air?
May curſes reſt on theſe devoted walls,
Till livid lightning to the centre ſhake them!
Exit FULVIA.
SCENE XII.
DURAZZO, and JULIA.
DURAZZO.
Heaven be our guard! What means ſhe by that picture,
Mentevole, and thee?
JULIA.
I cannot ſpeak it.
Pray, lead me hence.
DURAZZO.
Scarce have I power to aid thee.
JULIA.
O for a friendly draught of long oblivion,
To freeze up every feeling faculty!
Againſt calamity I ſtrive in vain;
Since thus each diſtant gleam of flattering hope
Mocks with falſe light, or burſts in ſtorms upon me.
Exeunt.
THE END OF THE THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
[55]SCENE I. A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace.
DURAZZO, MARCELLUS, and CAMILLO.
DURAZZO.
Not ſo, not ſo; deem me not loſt to reaſon;
My breaſt is ever open to receive you.
Though Fulvia's ſon, I hold you not allied
To Fulvia's enmity, and violence.
Nay, were we foes, (which I ſhould grieve to think,)
The qualities and virtue of Marcellus
Could find no tongue more prompt in their report,
Than old Durazzo's.
MARCELLUS.
My much honour'd lord,
Theſe friendly ſounds are cordials to my ear.
Soon as I heard my mother's frantick tale,
(Though tears and exclamations ſcarce gave room
For her diſtemper'd rage to tell the ſtory,)
Such conſternation ſeiz'd me, as if earth
Convuls'd had yawn'd at once beneath my feet,
And livid flames ſhot upwards to conſume me,
DURAZZO.
Did I not ſcorn to mate a woman's malice,
What vengeful ſpunge, though ſteep'd in Stygian gall,
Could wipe away my deep-dy'd injuries?
My houſe's ancient honour ſet at nonght;
The little ſpark of health, which, juſt rekindling,
Glow'd in the check of my dear innocent child,
[56]And warm'd her father's hopes, rudely extinguiſh'd;
Her name that like a holy word was utter'd,
Grace and good will ſtill uſhering the ſound,
Caſt for vile queſtion to the publick ſtreets,
'Midſt ſcurril caſuiſts, and the lees of Genoa:—
By my juſt rage, the ſanctity of virtue
Never ſuſtain'd ſo groſs a profanation.
MARCELLUS.
With burning bluſhes, as the ſhame were mine,
And hooting crowds made me deriſion's ſcoff,
I own the juſtice of a father's anger.
Deſcend, mild patience, to her harrow'd breaſt!
What fortitude can arm her feeling heart
Againſt the rankling barb of this fell arrow?
'Gainſt galling taunts, 'gainſ mortal accuſations,
From lips whoſe every ſound ſhould ſooth and bleſs her?
DURAZZO.
The malice of a foe may be endur'd;
But friendſhip's ſtab,—the very plank we cling to
Turn'd to a barbarous engine for deſtruction!—
And yet her gentle, her forgiving nature
Unwillingly permits my juſt reproach;
She checks my indignation, by rememb'ring,
How kind, how tender, Fulvia once was to her;
And how the exalted virtues of her ſoul
Tranſcend her frailties, and efface this error.
SCENE II.
[57]Enter an Officer.
OFFICER.
Be on your guard, my lord; we have certain notice,
The rabble ſtir'd up by ſome ſtrange report,
Muſtering from every quarter are aſſembled,
And threaten inſult here.
DURAZZO.
I thank you, ſir.
Let them come on, we are prepar'd to meet them.
The love of tumult, and not zeal for juſtice,
Is their great principle. What think you now?
Exit Officer.
MARCELLUS.
The wretch arraign'd, whoſe gaſping expectation
Hangs on the aweful pauſe that dooms or ſaves him,
Feels peace and bliſs to what my breaſt endures,
Till, proſtrate at her feet, I clear my honour,
My reaſon, and each ſpark of manhood in me,
From vile concurrence in this monſtrous outrage.
This inſtant lead me to her.
CAMILLO.
Hold, Marcellus.
We muſt not give too looſe a rein to paſſion,
At ſuch a trembling criſis. Good my lord,
to DURAZZO.
To check the ſhameful licence, and diſorder,
Which hourly ſpread more wide by our inaction,
One way at leaſt is plain.
DURAZZO.
[58]My mind's diſtracted.
I ſhould before have told you our reſolves;
But my vex'd ſpirit this way finds relief,
And vents itſelf in railing. But 'tis thus.
The duke, (and much I'm bound to thank his grace.)
Though urg'd to every harſh extremity
By that fierce woman, kindly has determin'd
To take the milder courſe. Himſelf in perſon,
When I appoint the hour, will viſit us.
He knows already every circumſtance,
In its true ſtate, nor heeds our foe's perverſion;
And reſting ſo, with honour I muſt own,
Suſpicion has its mark.
CAMILLO.
Mentevole.
DURAZZO.
My favour to that lord, his daily boaſt,
The prattle of this buſy babbling city,
Pregnant and poſitive in ſlanderous falſhoods,
The picture dropp'd by him, and found with Julia,
But moſt, her ſecret meeting him this morning,
(Which, till explain'd, gives colour to ſuggeſtion,)
Have ſo perverſely wound us in the ſnare;
We ſtand, like him, expos'd the common butt
For every ſhaft of venom'd calumny.
MASCELLUS.
Heavens, can it be? That angel! ſhe expos'd
To bear the prying eye, the inſidious queſtion,
Of proud, unfeeling, quaint authority;
[59]Each ſauntering varlet, worthleſs of the honour
To ſtrew her paths with ruſhes, unabaſh'd
Gaze on the emotions of her lovely face,
And find a heighten'd zeſt in her confuſion!
I will not truſt myſelf to wear my ſword,
Leſt, with a firy inſtinct, from my ſide
It ſtart at once, and in their blood avenge her.
CAMILLO.
Reaſon and juſtice are her beſt avengers.
Be calm then, good Marcellus; hear the means.
Juſt now, an order iſſued from the ſtate,
That none ſhould paſs the city's ſuburb gates,
Nor veſſel leave the port, till the duke's licence
Permits the uſual egreſs. This, though pointed
But at Mentevole, being general,
Wounds not his pride; nor can awake ſuſpicion.
DURAZZO.
I fear the wiſe precaution was in vain;
Suſpicion will awake, when conſcience ſleeps not,
And his—but I am to blame;—appearances
Are indexes full oft which point to error.
CAMILLO.
His ſiſter, as we learn; has ſought a convent,
And will no more be found.
DURAZZO.
I pity her,
Poor wretch! unconſciouſly, the inſtrument
To ſpeed perhaps a brother's infamy:
But all ſhe knew already is divulg'd.
[60]Keep eye, Camillo, on Mentevole.
For you, dear youth, be ſure, no mean miſtruſt
Unworthy my eſteem, and your high honour,
Can ever harbour here.
MARCELLUS.
Yet, O, Durazzo,
I feel but half aſſur'd. An ugly ſhame,
Chilling the native freedom of my ſpirit,
Hangs on me, loads me, drags me to the ground.
Nor can I ſhake the vile dejection off,
Till ſweeter than the gale from new-born flowers;
Her balmy lips breathe peace into my boſom.
Will you not lead me to her?
DURAZZO.
Yes, Marcellus,
Deplore with me the ruins of a mind
Where nature laviſh'd every grace and virtue,
To make misfortune ſtill more eminent.
Come then, let's on.—Without there?
Enter Sarv.
Is my daughter
Still in her chamber?
SERVANT.
She but now was ſeen,
Without attendants, near the orange grove.
DURAZZO.
Ere we return here, ſhould the duke arrive,
You'll find us near the grove. Now I attend you.
to MAR.
SERVANT.
My lord, the ſtranger we this morn admitted,
Waits in the outward chamber.—If your leiſure—
DURAZZO.
[61]I had forgot. Good man! yes, bid him enter.
Exit Serv.
Marcellus, for a moment, pardon me.
Exeunt MARCELLUS and CAMILLO.
SCENE III.
DURAZZO, alone.
He has known better days; and, to my thought,
No cares, however near us, can excuſe
Our hard neglect of humble miſery.
SCENE IV.
To DURAZZO, MANOA enters with humility.
MANOA.
I am too bold.
DURAZZO.
No, worthy Manoa;
Pride may intrude, but not the unfortunate.
But how? Thy cheeks are pale; thy ſtarted eye
Looks fearfully around. What ſudden terrour
Shakes thus thy manhood?
MANOA.
O, my gracious lord,
In vain I hoped, your pity and protection
Might be ſtretch'd forth to ſcreen me from my foes.
The cruel vigilance of fate has found me;
I am diſcover'd, loſt.
DURAZZO.
[62]I truſt, not ſo.
MANOA.
A dreadful order is but now gone forth,
To cloſe the port up, and the city gates.
It muſt be meant 'gainſt me; to hem me in,
And yield my life to cruel men who hate me.
DURAZZO.
Diſmiſs that fear, I know the cauſe too well;
'Tis diſtant far from thee.
MANOA.
Indeed?
DURAZZO.
Moſt ſure.
MANOA.
I breathe again. May every bleſſing crown you!
DURAZZO.
I know your innocence, and will not fail
To impreſs the duke and ſenate in your favour.
Nor can I think but for ſome ſpecial end
A providence ſo viſible preſerv'd you.
Mean time, take comfort to you, and reſt here,
Secure; theſe walls ſhall be your ſanctuary.
MANOA.
O, ever-bounteous to the oppreſs'd and wretched,
The ſtrength of our forefathers be your ſhield!
And, for this manna to my famiſh'd hopes,
[63]When full of age and honours you lie down,
Protect your generations to time's end!
Exit MANOA.
DURAZZO.
Who waits?
Enter Serv.
Obſerve that ſtranger with reſpect,
And ſee that none moleſt him.
Exit Serv.
O, Mentevole!—
It muſt be ſo. A thouſand diſtant hints,
Like meteor glancing through a duſky ſky,
That nothing ſhew diſtinctly, croſs my brain.
But ſoon the dim horizon will be clear,
And truth's bright ray diſpel the doubtful twilight.
Exit DURAZZO.
SCENE V. The Garden of DURAZZO's Palace.
MENTEVOLE, alone. A Whiſtle is heard.
Hark! that's my ſignal. Then ſhe's near the grove:
And ſee, a woman's form. Be firm, my heart!
No fluttering now. Let dire neceſſity
(That in itſelf contains all arguments)
Fix its ſtrong fiat on my reſolution,
And cancel nature's fear. She muſt be mine.
I have buffetted beyond the midway flood;
Nor ſhall my ſinews ſhrink ſo near the ſhore.
But come the worſt, 'gainſt ſhame and diſappointment,
Thou ſharp, but friendly leech, I will apply thee.
He draws a dagger, which he holds up, and returns again to his boſom.
Soft, ſoft; from hence, unſeen I may obſerve her.
he retires.
Enter JULIA.
No, I muſt ſtill endure; for death is proud,
Owes none obedience; nor will come when ſummon'd:
[64]The happy who avoid him, he purſues;
And with malignant triumph loves to enter,
Where dreams of long ſecurity and joy
Give ten-fold terrours to the grim intruder.
To thee I ſtretch my arms, thee I invoke,
For in thy cold and leaden graſp there—Ha!
ſeeing MENTEVOLE, ſhe ſtarts.
MENTEVOLE.
Why ſtart you, madam? Have a few ſhort hours
So chang'd the man you ſought, nay, kinder ſtill,
With gentle interceſſion ſooth'd, and won
To mercy for a rival, that a ſerpent
Riſing on mortal ſpires to ſting your life,
Could not excite more horrour than his preſence?
JULIA.
Thou art, indeed, a ſerpent, coil'd for miſchief;
To dart out on the unwary, drink his blood,
And ſlink again to thy dark lurking place.
Why art thou here?
MENTEVOLE.
To talk to thee of love.
JULIA.
Of murder rather.—Hence!
going.
MENTEVOLE.
I muſt detain you.
holding her.
A moment is not long. And can thy wiſdom,
For ſuch a feather, for one light ſurmiſe,
That picture, raſhly deem me capable
Of ſhedding human blood, nay, a friend's blood?
JULIA.
[65]Of every crime I deem thee capable:
Thy furious temper knows no ſacred bond;
Death on thyſelf, even kneeling at my feet,
Thou haſt vow'd with frantick oaths. O, patient heaven!
Why did not fire from yon inſulted ſky
Conſume him quick, ere his pernicious rage
Had plung'd me in this gulph of wretchedneſs?
MENTEVOLE.
I am ſo clear from any conſcious taint,
On that foul charge, I would not waſte a moment
To purge me of ſo groſs a villainy.
What ſtate, what ſex, what excellence of mind,
E'er found an armour againſt calumny?
Give the moſt monſtrous ſlander but a birth,
Folly ſhall own, and malice cheriſh it.
It moves but my contempt. Conſider this,
Art not thou too accus'd? thy ſpotleſs ſelf,
Alike call'd criminal? by what? by madneſs.
JULIA.
I thank thee, yes. Thy moſt unwelcome love,
Like ſome contagious vapour breath'd upon me,
Has made me loathſome to the publick view:
The perſecution of thy hateful vows,
That firſt diſturb'd my peace, now blaſts my honour.
I ſtand a poor, defam'd, ſuſpected creature:
The eyes, whoſe gentle pity balm'd my ſorrows,
Now turn their beams with indignation on me;
And thou the cauſe of all.
MENTEVOLE.
You hate me then?
JULIA.
[66]Hate thee! the term's too weak. 'Tis vital horrour:
The helpleſs dove views not the ravening kite,
With ſuch inſtinctive dread, and deteſtation.
The principle by which we ſtart from death,—
Crave needful food,—nature's original print
To ſhun our evil, and purſue our good,
By reaſon ſtrengthen'd with increaſing age,
Are not ſo mix'd, and general through my frame.
Hence from my eyes! Thy ſight is deadly to me.
MENTEVOLE.
O, thou unthankful beauty! think a little,
How envy'd, but for thee, had been my lot:
My youth had glided down life's eaſy ſtream,
With every ſail out-ſpread for every pleaſure.
But ſince the hour I ſaw thy fatal charms,
My boſom has been hell. How I have lov'd,
All my neglected duties of the world,
Friends, parents, intereſt, country, all forgotten.
Cry out againſt me; now I count the exchange,
And find all barter'd for thy hate and ſcorn.
JULIA.
Dar'ſt thou upbraid me, or aſſume a pride
Even from the homely meanneſs of thy ſoul,
Thy long ungenerous importunity?
Mere ſenſual love, contented with the outſide?
The pure, exalted, incorporeal flame,
Fann'd not by ſympathy's ſoft breath, expires.
I never gave thee hope, no, not a look,
Thy vanity could conſtrue into kindneſs.
I play'd no hypocrite; my heart at once
Diffus'd its honeſt dictates to my eyes;
[67]They told thee my averſion, my diſdain;
And were this air the laſt I ſhould reſpire,
Here, in the face of heaven, my tongue confirms them.
MENTEVOLE.
O eloquence of hatred! noble candour!
I am thy fool no more, my doubts are vaniſh'd.
Thou haſt not left in all my ſwelling veins,
One cold compunctious drop, to chill my purpoſe:
The lover ſcorn'd, the man now rouſes here.
Mark me, ungrateful!
JULIA.
Ha! what means the traitor?
aſide.
MENTEVOLE.
This garden leads to mine; the paſſages
Are all ſecur'd. A ready prieſt within
Waits to unite us; therefore yield at once;
Vain is reſiſtance. If I raiſe my voice,
Four faithful ſlaves behind yon thicket lodg'd,
Will bear thee off.
JULIA.
Am I betray'd thus vilely?
MENTEVOLE.
Look round, no aid is near thee. Thou art mine:
All thy reluctant beauties are my ſpoil,
And, won by wit, ſhall be enjoy'd at will.
Come;—nay, no ſtrife.
JULIA.
kneeling.
O, give me inſtant death!
See, at your feet I fall.
MENTEVOLE.
[68]For worlds on worlds,
I would not hurt thy charms. My eyes, my ſoul,
Are not ſo dear to me.
JULIA.
Satiate thy rage;
With new-invented cruelty deface me;
I will but ſmile at the uplifted ſteel,
And bleſs you while you kill me.
MENTEVOLE.
Have a care!
I mean thee no diſhonour; but theſe ſtruggles,
That heaving boſom, thoſe reſiſtleſs beams,
Darting their ſubtle heat through all my frame,
May fire my ſenſes to ſo wild a tumult,—
JULIA.
O, fatal thought! I will choke in my breath;
Fall lifeleſs here. Is there no pitying power?
Are prayers in vain above?
MENTEVOLE.
As empty air.
Love only wakes, for he inſpires my ardour.
O, fond reluctance! muſt I call for aid?
No, gently thus—
ſtooping to raiſe her, in the ſtruggle, the dagger falls from his breaſt, which ſhe ſeizes inſtantly, and riſes.
JULIA.
Ha! was it ſent from heaven?
Lo, thine own dagger. See, I graſp it ſtrongly:
Now, monſter, I defy thee.
MENTEVOLE.
[69]Plagues! confuſion!
JULIA.
The righteous guardian of the innocent
Has look'd from yon bright firmament to earth,
And ſends this timely ſuccour.
MENTEVOLE.
Meddling daemons,
In black confed'racy combin'd againſt me,
Turn all my engines to their own deſtruction.
Yet hear with patience—
JULIA.
If thou dar'ſt approach me,
Stir but thy foot, or call thy bate aſſociates,—
Swift as the ray that darts from yonder orb,
(I feel the artery here,) this friendly point
Shall pierce my heart, and, as death's ſhades cloſe round me,
I'll bleſs the night which ſhuts thee out for ever.
MENTEVOLE.
Obdurate as thou art, alas, my dotage
Would ſtill preſerve thee; and implores thee, pardon
The mad attempt by deſperation prompted.
JULIA.
Sunk to the loweſt in my eſteem before,
Lower thou could'ſt not fall. Degrading guilt,
How mean, how abject, are the ſouls which own thee!
How vile thy thraldom! See the baffled ruffian,
Though bravoes lurk all round to abet his fury,
Abaſh'd, and pale, before an injur'd woman.
MENTEVOLE.
[70]I muſt endure it all;—perfidious fortune!
JULIA.
But lo, my father and Marcellus near.
Keep thy dark ſecret, for I will not rouſe
Their indignation to demand thy life,
And ſnatch the forfeit from impending juſtice:
Thou ſhould'ſt not die ſo nobly. Hence! begone!
JULIA throws down the dagger, and exit.
SCENE VI.
MENTEVOLE, alone.
Again I graſp thee, faithleſs inſtrument!
takes up the dagger.
Revenge, that lateſt ſunſhine of the accurs'd,
If I muſt periſh, ſtill may gild my downfall.
Exit.
THE END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
[71]SCENE I. A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace.
JULIA, and MARCELLUS.
MARCELLUS.
'Tis true, too true; my aſtoniſh'd eyes beheld it.
The duke is come, is in the hall this inſtant;
And (ſhame to Genoa!) armed guards are poſted,
To ſave this palace from the people's outrage.
JULIA.
O, if my prayers have any power to move you,
Or, if you would not add to my diſtreſs,
(Moſt ſure you cannot mean it,) I implore you,
Wide, as if ſpotted plagues encompaſs'd me,
Avoid me, fly me, in fierce Fulvia's preſence.
MARCELLUS.
With joy, in all but this, I would obey you.
Shall I retire, and ſeem to abet a cauſe,
By tame neutrality, and timorous ſilence,
Which, but to think of, chills my heart's warm blood,
And drives my ſober ſenſe to wild amazement?
JULIA.
Think then what I feel here! yet, O, remember
She has a parent's claim to your reſpect;
And how I lov'd her, heaven that knows can witneſs;
In publick to confront her, might enkindle
Her rage to madneſs. Has ſhe not accus'd me
(O, that I could forget it!) of ſuch crimes,
As calumny's foul lips might ſhrink to utter?
MARCELLUS.
[72]Her's is the ſhame, but our's, alas, the anguiſh.
JULIA.
Stung thus to frenzy, ſhe would hurl on me
Your diſobedience; all her houſe's woe
Impute to me alone, unhappy me;
While trembling, ſinking, I could but oppoſe
The feeble ſhield of innocence and tears.
No, juſtice muſt for once give way to duty.
MARCELLUS.
O, do not freeze me with ſo cold a word;
Nor wrong the ardours of my glowing boſom.
JULIA.
The great diſpoſer of events on earth,
For ſome unſearchable, myſterious end,
Has pleas'd to mark me for adverſity.
With conſtancy unſhaken, my firm ſoul
Shall meet the black ſucceſſion of my fates.
When the full ſtorm has emptied all its fury,
This ſhatter'd bark may ſink at length to peace;
And the laſt wave that rolls the welcome death,
Bury my much-wrong'd name in cold oblivion.
MARCELLUS.
What eye that with delight has gaz'd on beauty;
What ear that e'er was raviſh'd with ſweet ſounds;
Who that has ſenſe and ſoul to feel perfection,
And witneſs'd thy unrivall'd excellence;
Can let thee be forgotten? Hear, O, hear me!
I Can no more ſuppreſs my burning paſſion;
[73]It will have way. My fate is in thy breath,
And all my enamour'd ſoul, enſlav'd, adores thee.
JULIA.
Marcellus!
MARCELLUS.
Ha! that cold averted brow,
Preſumptuous man! beſpeaks my doom too plainly.
JULIA.
Is this an hour for love?
MARCELLUS.
At every hour,
(Enchanting as thou art) thy eyes command it.
Thus on my knee I ſeize the bleſt occaſion,
To tell thee all thy wond'rous charms inſpire,
Though ages might glide by, ere half was utter'd.
JULIA.
There is an aweful witneſs of this ſcene,
For ever preſent here, who hovers round me.
Through the ſtill void I hear a ſolemn voice;
On his pale lips the unwilling accents hang:
Our vows, he cries, were regiſter'd above;
For thee my breaſt was pierc'd; ſee this red wound,
Nor loſe the memory in a brother's arms.
MARCELLUS.
What canſt thou mean? Why do thy lovely eyes
Thus waſte their beams on air? O, turn them here,
To warm my breaſt, and light up ecſtacy!
JULIA.
May ghaſtly ſpectres deck my bridal couch,
[74]Hemlock and poiſonous weeds be ſtrew'd for flowers,
The nuptial torch ſcatter deſpair and death,
And mutter'd curſes blaſt the unhallow'd rite,
If my falſe hand receive another love,
Or my frail heart forget its early paſſion!
MARCELLUS.
O, fatal ſound! my inauſpicious ſighs
Awake no gentle ſympathy for me;
But fan the flame for a dead rival's aſhes.
JULIA.
All the moſt tender intereſt can inſpire,
Soft friendſhip, and an anxious ſiſter's kindneſs,
Unaſk'd I offer; but of love no more:
The object, and the paſſion died with him.
MARCELLUS.
Too near, and too remote. It cannot be:
For, O, 'tis lingering torment, hourly death,
To touch the cup might quench our fever's thirſt,
And know we muſt not taſte it. Angels guard you!
Farewel! Let chance direct my wandering way;
The world, without thee, has no choice for me.
Exit MARCELLUS.
SCENE II.
JULIA, alone.
Moſt brave, moſt generous, and by me undone!
Judge of the ſecret heart, what unknown ſin
Did I commit, that fate ſtands ready arm'd,
To viſit all whoſe peace is dear to me?
[75]Take me, O, take me, to thy wiſh'd-for reſt,
And leave mankind to their own deſtiny!
Exit.
SCENE III.
A magnificent Hall in Durazzo's Palace. The Duke of Genoa, with Guards and other Attendants in the center; FULVIA, &c. on one ſide; DURAZZO, CAMILLO, and JULIA, with their Attendants, on the other.
FULVIA.
I have obey'd the ſummons of your grace.
Yet when I ſee the ſeat of juſtice chang'd
From the grave bench, where once ſhe us'd to frown,
Even to the chambers of my adverſaries,
I look for ſuch an iſſue, as hereafter
Will make this novelty no precedent;
But to be ſhun'd, and noted for the abuſe.
DUKE.
The ſanctity of juſtice is the heart
Of him who judges; place makes no diſtinction.
And when the veil of paſſion is remov'd,
When with clear eyes you ſee the good we mean you,
Yourſelf, I know, will thank us for this courſe;
And own our ſwerving from the common form
Was kind to all concern'd.
FULVIA.
May it prove ſo!
JULIA.
You ſee me here, brought for ſo ſtrange a cauſe,
I can but with aſtoniſhment look round,
Nor know I whom to oppoſe, or what to anſwer.
[76]'Tis hard to make my affliction my offence;
And the black deed which ſaddens all my days,—
The ſource, the bitter ſource, of every ſorrow,—
The ground to load me with reproach and ſhame.
Yet here am I accus'd,—I cannot ſpeak it,—
Accus'd of what?—To ſay, I am innocent,
Would be ſuch mean, ſuch baſe indignity
To the great ſpirit of my exalted love,
I'd rather burſt with the proud ſenſe of ſcorn,
And leave my ſilence to your worſt ſurmiſe,
Than utter ſuch a word.
DUKE.
O! 'tis too much.
DURAZZO.
You are appris'd, my lord, with what intent
My daughter ſecretly this morning ſought
A meeting with Mentevole?
DUKE.
I know it;
And grieve to find ſo gentle an intent
Has met ſuch hard conſtruction from good Fulvia.
FULVIA.
Reſerve, my lord, your pity till we aſk it,
And counſel ignorance. We know our purpoſe▪
DUKE.
As we our duty. And behold the man
Firſt in our preſent ſearch.
takes his ſeat.
SCENE IV.
[77]Enter MENTEVOLE.
Know you, my lord,
Why we aſſemble here?
MENTEVOLE.
Yes. Clamour's throat
Has roar'd it in our ſtreets. I paſs'd along
Through files of obloquy. Our ſapient rabble
Reverſe the order of the magiſtracy,
And, ere they hear, condemn us.
DUKE.
Then, my lord,
As you regard your honour, and your life,
Touch'd by ſuſpicion to the quick, this inſtant
Account for your poſſeſſion of that picture.
That lady there, dead Claudio's mother, ſwears,
It was her ſon's, and worn around his neck
The day he diſappear'd. Behold, do you know it?
Do you allow you dropp'd it?
MENTEVOLE.
Yes; but not
That it was Claudio's. Yet, I cannot wonder,
Two objects ſo alike, ſhould ſeem the ſame.
FULVIA.
Should ſeem the ſame!
DUKE.
Have patience, gentle lady.
MENTEVOLE.
I ſay, ſhould ſeem; for it is barely ſeeming.
From that which Claudio own'd, (the artiſt's boaſt,)
[78]Myſelf, not meanly in the ſcience ſkill'd,
Painted this picture; love, my pencil's guide;
And, from the image in my heart engrav'd,
Aſſiſted by the model, ſuch I made it,
That not the moſt diſcerning, niceſt eye
From the firſt beauteous draught could know that copy.
FULVIA.
And had you ſkill to paint thoſe jewels too,
Thoſe jewels in the round? their hue and luſtre
So ſingular, and bright? By every power,
Theſe were my ſon's.
MENTEVOLE.
No. Give me hearing, madam.
Thoſe too I purchas'd from the very merchant
Who furniſh'd Claudio. All who hear me, know
The name of Manoa; his ſervices
To this ungrateful ſtate; his flight, his death;
Which I lament, ſince living, he could witneſs,
And ſtrike you dumb, that by my ſpecial order
He choſe theſe precious gems, in form and colour
So like to Claudio's, none could mark diſtinction.
To pay their value, my eſtate was ſtrain'd;
But had their eſtimation been twice doubled,
A crown imperial deem'd the mighty price,
Rather than yield him preference in aught
Might ſeem a teſt of my extravagant love,
I would have graſp'd at it; and ſo remain'd
The ruin'd, happy lord of that ſole treaſure.
Now learn from hence, how wiſdom ſhould demur
To found a ſentence on appearances.
Your grace is ſatisfied.
Here DURAZZO whiſpers CA⯑MILLO, who goes out.
DUKE.
[79]I own, to me,
(No proof appearing to the contrary,)
If this be ſo, your honour ſeems acquitted.
FULVIA.
But not to me. O, undiſcerning lord!
Is this your inquiſition, this your juſtice?
I am not ſatisfied; my heart ſtill tells me,
That picture was my ſon's; ſo reaſon tells me;
Nor ſhould a voucher from the yawning grave
Shake my conviction.—That good Manoa
Did ſell theſe jewels to my ſlaughter'd ſon;
And he, 'tis true, conveniently is dead:
But he had heirs and kindred; ſummon them;
A treaſure ſuch as this, could not be ſold
Without their knowledge; inſtantly convene them,
And act through ſhame, as if you ſought for truth;
Elſe, your grave robes will be the jeſt of boys,
And my ſon's blood will cry till death againſt you.
MENTEVOLE.
Do not ſuppoſe I ſcoff at this grave preſence,
When thus I ſmile in my ſecurity.
Produce ſuch witneſſes, what could they prove?
Their ignorance perhaps in what you aſk them;
But we have clear and poſitive laws to guard us.
JULIA.
So long I have ſaid little, fearful ever
To give offence, where all my care has been
To manifeſt reſpect, eſteem, and honour,
Even with a daughter's duteous humbleneſs.
But thus much let me add: I here diſclaim
[80](As moſt abhorrent to my thoughts, and nature,)
All common intereſt, union, and accord,
With him, for whom I ſuffer in the cenſure
Of that ungentle lady; and believe,
Firmly, like her, that picture was her ſon's,
And there, before you, ſtands his murderer.
MENTEVOLE.
Why ſtay I here? My lord, if you have power
To give me reparation for the ſtain
Caſt on my honour by this fooliſh proceſs,
Pronounce it ſtraight; if not, thus I withdraw
From thoſe vex'd eyes which glare with fury on me.
DURAZZO.
Soft you a while; for lo you, who comes here,
Even to your wiſh, to make all clear for you.
SCENE V.
Re-enter CAMILLO, leading in MANOA.
MENTEVOLE.
ſtarting.
Swallow me, earth! he lives. But I muſt brave it.
DUKE.
riſing.
Ha! can I truſt my ſenſes? Manoa!
DURAZZO.
The ſame, my lord, and by no miracle.
DUKE.
Yet things ſo ſtrange are next to miracles,
And his appearance ſuch. We thought him dead.—
This is beyond your hopes.
to MENTEVOLE.
MENTEVOLE.
[81]O, much beyond them.—
All curſes of his nation light upon him!
aſide.
JULIA.
The villain's cheek turns pale; his fate has found him.
aſide.
DUKE.
Surpriſe to ſee you here, no way abates
to MANOA.
Our pleaſure at your welfare. Bluſhing deeply,
We own the ſtate has wrong'd you, but ſoon purpoſe
To give you full redreſs.
MANOA.
My humbleſt thanks.
DUKE.
takes is ſeat.
At preſent we muſt ſet aſide that care
For one which now employs us. No more thanks,
We yet deſerve them not.—Come nearer ſtill;
gives MANOA the picture.
Take this, examine it. Do you remember
(Obſerve them well) the jewels round that picture?
MANOA.
Moſt ſure, my lord; they are by no means common;
But all, indeed, moſt rare and ſingular.
DUKE.
They once were yours. Who was their purchaſer?
MANOA.
A noble youth, by whoſe untimely death
Genoa has loſt her brighteſt ornament,
[82]Even in the depth of my own miſery,
My heart dropp'd blood to hear the fate of Claudio.
DUKE.
Did you at any time, (think, ere you anſwer,)
Procure for any other purchaſer
Jewels like theſe?
MANOA.
Never, my lord.
MENTEVOLE.
Out, dotard!
Thy miſeries have craz'd thy memory.
To me theſe gems were ſold; look on me well,
I was the friend of Claudio: think, old man,
A noble perſon's life, and reputation,
(More dear than life,) hang on the words you utter.
MANOA.
I've ſaid, what I have ſaid; were my ſoul's fate
Link'd to the teſtimony, thus I ſtake it:
As I do hops forgiveneſs of my ſins,
And peace in death, I never ſold theſe gems,
Nor any like them, ſave to noble Claudio.
DUKE.
Hear you, my lord?
MENTEVOLE.
I hear a faithleſs Jew.
A ſlave ſuborn'd, a traitor to the ſtate,
A bankrupt, fugitive, and outcaſt Hebrew,
[83]Aver—he knows not what;—and ſtill more ſtrange,
I ſee the credulous duke of Genoa,
The firſt in eſtimation as in place,
Gaping to ſwallow monſtrous perjuries.
MANOA.
What intereſt, lord, have I to do this wrong?
I enter'd, uninſtructed of the cauſe
For which you ſummon'd me; nor know I now,
Why I am thus revil'd for my true anſwer.
DUKE.
to MENTEVOLE.
It can avail you nought, to diſallow
The proof yourſelf appeal'd to.
MANOA.
Mighty ſignor,
I have an atteſtation of my truth,
Beyond all oaths, or ſacred form of words.
If I am not a liar, and ſuborn'd,
There reſts within this frame a ſpring conceal'd
With niceſt art, and known to me alone,
And its firſt maſter. Touch'd, it will diſcover
The noble Claudio's image.—Ay, 'tis here.—
Ill-fated youth!—Is this to be a liar?
He touches a ſpring, and ſhews a picture of CLAUDIO beneath that of JULIA.
JULIA.
eagerly.
Give me that picture. O, my promis'd love,
This was thy form. Thy brow, the throne of honour,
And grace thy miniſter.—For ever gone!
So look'd thoſe gloſſy eyes when turn'd on Julia.—
Cold is that tongue.—Come, animating warmth,
[84]Breathe through my lips, give life to this dear ſhade,
And let me die thus gazing!
MENTEVOLE.
Daemons ſeize thee!
to MANOA.
Cramps and cold palſies wither thy curs'd hand!
Thou haſt undone me.
DUKE.
riſing.
Sir, you are our priſoner;
And in our palace you muſt hear your ſentence.—
Bear him away this inſtant.
Two of the Guards attempt to ſeize him.
MENTEVOLE.
Stand aloof!
Nor raiſe a hand in violence againſt me;
Or with one ſtroke I'll fruſtrate all your forms,
And the dark tale dies with me.
DUKE.
Hold;—let's hear him.
MENTEVOLE.
I did kill Claudio. On the morn you miſs'd him,
We took together our accuſtom'd walk;
When this too certain arm achiev'd the deed,
Which long lay brooding in my jealouſy.
FULVIA.
Deliberate, curs'd aſſaſſin!
JULIA.
O, my heart!
MENTEVOLE.
[85]He talk'd with rapture of the approaching bliſs,
Till paſſion drown'd his ſight; with eyes upcaſt,
Then drew that picture, hanging round his neck,
From underneath his garment; glew'd his lips
With tranſport, to the beauteous, lifeleſs form.
My ſmother'd fury roſe at once to madneſs;
With one hand, from his graſp I tore the picture,
And with the other ſmote him to the heart.
JULIA faints.
DURAZZO.
My daughter! ha! the blood forſakes her cheeks.
My life, my all, look up!
FULVIA.
running to JULIA.
Dear, injur'd, maid,
Live but to ſee my penitence, my tears!
Thou lovely ſufferer, O wake, and hear me!
Alas! ſhe heeds me not. My barbarous tongue,
Sharp as the felon's ſteel, was fatal to thee,—
See, ſhe revives.
DURAZZO.
Thank heaven! ſhe breathes again.
JULIA.
O, who has call'd me back to this dark world,
From choirs of angels, and celeſtial light,
To view that murderer? Yet, let me view him:
For I would find the ſpeedieſt way to peace;
And in the hollow of his cruel eye,
There ſhould be mortal miſchief, freezing terror,
To ſtop the tide of nature.—Monſter, think,
Pain, ignominy, death, which wait thee here,
[86]Will have their lengthen'd end, but to conſign thee
To ever-during miſery hereafter.
MENTEVOLE.
My ſentence here I know; the reſt's uncertain.
But leaſt of all, fair ſorcereſs! that tongue
Should aggravate the crime, thoſe eyes perſuaded;
Thou, thou, the cauſe of all this guilt and ruin.
Why did I kill my friend? Why, but for thee,
Why riſk my ſoul's perdition? Still for thee.
Why forfeit life and honour? All for thee.
Then where ſhould I ſeek vengeance, but from thee?
And thus, inſulted love thus bids me take it.
He ſtabs JULIA, and attempts to ſtab himſelf, but is prevented.
JULIA.
Ha!
DURAZZO.
Seize his arm! O, execrable wretch!
Fly, fly for ſuccour! See, ſhe bleeds, ſhe dies:
The fiend, the inhuman fiend has kill'd my daughter.
DUKE.
Quick, bear him hence; each hour while he draws breath,
All laws divine and human are inſulted.
Exit DUKE.
MENTEVOLE.
'Tis done; I laugh at you. Your triumph's paſt.
See there, the laſt deſpair of outraged love.
Now plunge me in your dungeons; tire your code,
To wake new torments for me. The great ſpirit
Which dared ſuch deeds, ſhall brave their penalty.
MENTEVOLE is carried off.
DURAZZO.
[87]Good heaven, in pity to a father's anguiſh,
Let me not loſe her thus!—my child, my child!
JULIA.
The pain of this deep wound is light, my father;
But O, to think, that your declining age
Will want the comfort of a daughter's care;
That cold obedience muſt diſcharge the office
Affection made ſo welcome to your Julia!
DURAZZO.
My heart's beſt blood! I ſhall not long ſurvive thee.
FULVIA.
Hide me, O earth! I tremble to approach.——
Has thy ſoft generous heart one drop of mercy,
To fall upon a wretch, whoſe ſavage fury
Outraged thy virtues, pierc'd thy tender ſoul,
Mocking thy bittereſt pangs. O, Julia! Julia!
kneeling.
JULIA.
Riſe, madam, riſe. Theſe ſupplicating hands,
Your ſtreaming eyes, and that reſpected body,
Thus bow'd with grief, and groveling on the earth,
Are ſights unfit for her, whoſe dying beams
With tender reverence muſt ſtill behold you.
Alas! reſentment, at this awful moment,
Can find no place in my departing ſpirit;
For all will ſoon be peace.
FULVIA.
Thou ſaint-like goodneſs!
Unmov'd I ſaw thy tears, ſaw the ſweet bluſh
[88]Of thy wrong'd innocence. For pity hate me;
In life, in death, riſe not ſo much above me.
JULIA.
Give me your hand; my laſt tears fall upon it.
As theſe diſſolving drops part from my eyes,
So melts the memory of all paſt unkindneſs.
FULVIA.
O, could they quench my everlaſting ſhame!
MARCELLUS.
without.
I will not be withheld.
Enters.
O, grief and horrour,
Why, why did I obey?—thy cruel order
Kept me far off. My preſence might have ſaved thee:
The ruthleſs ruffian in my faithful breaſt
Should firſt have drench'd his ſteel. Theſe fruitleſs tears
Are all I now have left thee.
JULIA.
Thus 'tis better.
A life of ſorrow, (ſuch alas, was mine,)
Is well exchang'd for bleſs'd eternity;
Thine ſhall be long and happy.
MARCELLUS.
Never, never:
Infinite woe from this black hour awaits me.
Yet let me print on that pale beauteous hand
One ſad adieu. O, that my ſoul could paſs thus!
By every ſacred power that hears, I ſwear,
My lips thus hallow'd by this holy kiſs,
Shall ne'er again—
JULIA.
[89]eagerly.
As you regard my peace,
My laſt, my earneſt prayer, let no raſh vow,
Blaſting the hopes of all your noble race,
Replunge the dagger in my bleeding boſom.
MARCELLUS.
Yet, there are means of death—
FULVIA.
My beſt Marcellus!
JULIA.
to FULVIA.
I beg you do not leave my poor remains,
But lighten that ſad office to my father.
DURAZZO.
O, miſery!
JULIA.
taking papers from her breaſt.
Theſe papers,—pray obſerve me,—
Bury theſe papers with me. Lay that picture
Cloſe to my heart, and let my coffin reſt
In the ſame tomb which holds my murder'd Claudio;
One love, one death, and the ſame ſepulchre.
I thank your tender tears.—Fountain of mercy!
Mild peace, and heavenly light, dawn on my ſenſe;
My pains grow leſs; this load will ſoon fall off:
I ſhall be happy. Weep not. Mercy! Oh!
Dies.
Curtain falls.
THE END OF THE FIFTH ACT.