Volume Xiv Part 7 (1/2)

[_Exit_ ANTONIO.

MACH. I'm wounded; else, coward Antonio, Thou shouldst not fly from my revengeful arm: But may my curses fall upon thy head, Heavy as thunder! may'st thou die Burthen'd with ulcerous sins, whose very weight May sink thee down to h.e.l.l, Beneath the reach of smooth-fac'd mercy's arm!

[_A shout within, crying_ ANTONIO.

Confusion choke your rash officious throats!

And may that breath that speaks his loathed name Beget a plague, whose hot infectious air May scald you up to blisters, which foretel A purge of life! Up, Machiavel, Thou hast thy will, howe'er cross fate Divert the people's hearts; they must perforce Sue to that shrine our liking shall erect.

The governor is dead, Antonio's lost To anything but death; 'tis our glad fate To gripe the staff of what we look'd for--state.

My blood's ambitious, and runs through my veins, Like nimble water through a leaden pipe Up to some barren mountain. I must have more; All wealth, in my thoughts, to a crown is poor.

_Enter_ GIOVANNO, EVADNE, _and_ NURSE.

GIO. 'Tis a neat gown, and fas.h.i.+onable, madam; is't not, love?

NUR. Upon my virginity, wonderful handsome: dear, when we are married, I'll have such a one; shall I not, chicken, ha?

GIO. What else, kind nurse?

NUR. Truly you tailors are the most sanctified members of a kingdom: how many crooked and untoward bodies have you set upright, that they go now so straight in their lives and conversation, as the proudest on them all?

GIO. That's certain, none prouder.

EVAD. How mean you, sir?

GIO. Faith, madam, your crooked movables in artificial bodies, that rectify the deformity of nature's overplus, as bunching backs: or scarcity, as scanty shoulders--are the proudest creatures; you shall have them jet it with an undaunted boldness; for the truth is, what they want in substance they have in air: they will scold the tailor out of his art, and impute the defect of nature to his want of skill, though his labour make her appearance pride-worthy.

NUR. Well said, my bird's-nye, stand for the credit of tailors whilst thou livest; wilt thou not, chuck? Ha, say'st thou, my dear?

GIO. I were ungrateful else.

EVAD. Nurse, pray leave us, your presence makes your sweetheart negligent of what he comes about; pray, be won to leave us here.

NUR. Madam, your will's obey'd: Yet I can hardly pa.s.s from thee, my love, At such a sudden warning.

GIO. Your eager love may be termed dotage; For shame! confine[20] yourself to less expressions, [And] leave my lady.

NUR. A kiss, and then I go; so, farewell, my duck.

[_Exit._

GIO. Death, she has left a scent to poison me; Love her, said she? is any man so mad to hug a disease, Or embrace a colder image than Pygmalion's, Or play with the bird of Frosty antiquity? not I: Her gums stink worse than a pest-house, And more danger of infecting.

[_Aside._

As I'm a mortal tailor, and your servant, madam, Her breath has tainted me: I dare not salute Your ladys.h.i.+p.

EVAD. Come, you are loth to part with't, 'tis so sweet.

GIO. Sweet, say you, madam? a muster of diseases Can't smell worse than her rotten teeth.

Excuse my boldness, to defer your longing; Thus I am new-created with your breath.

[_Kisses._