Lorenzo. Away! I will no more Look pearl in mud. Oh sly hypocrisy! Durst ye Abstemia. No, sir, I dare not: there is little pain in death; But a great death in every little pleasure. fought, I had rather, trust me, bear your death with honour, If I do this My soul a wound; I crush her from sweet grace, Try me no more then; but, if you must bleed, boast, Lorenzo. Thou wealth worth more than kingdoms ! Confirm'd past all suspicion, thou art far Sweeter in thy sincere truth, than a sacrifice Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds, Shall, laurel-like, crown honest ears with glory. 20 L. 159. the Indian winds, &c.] So Milton, in Paradise Lost, B. 4. As when to them who sail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past "Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow "Sabean odors from the spicy shore "Of Araby the blest: with such delay "Well pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league "Chear'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles." Antonio. Murder, murder, murder! Enter the three DUKES, with LORDS. Milan. Ha! who cries murder? Philippo. As y'are a gentleman, now be tru、 to me. Abstemia. Sir! Venice. Sister! Verona. My shame! art thou there? Venice. Oh sister, can it be A prince's blood should stain that white hand? Antonio. No, no, no, hear me : 'twas I cry'd murder; Because I have found them both stain'd with the deed They would have throttled me. Lorenzo. Hear us: by all Milan. Upon your lives be silent. Speak on, sir: Had they both hands in our son's blood? Antonio. Two hands apiece, sir. I have sifted it: they both have kill'd the prince; audience; Please you give me Ye shall wonder at the manner how they kill'd him. Antonio. He came first to this woman, and (truth's truth) He would have lain with her. Milan. Her own confession. Antonio. Nay, good your grace. Milan. We are silent. Antonio. Coming to seize upon her, with the first blow She struck his base intent so brave a buffet, That there it bled to death. She said, his horse Would teach him better manners: there he died once. Verona. What does this fellow talk? Abstemia. I understand him. Antonio. He met her next i' th' wood, where he was found dead: Then he came noblier up to her, and told her, Marriage was his intent; but she as nobly (Belike to let him know she was married) Told him, in an intelligible denial, A chaste wife's truth shin'd through the greatest trial: There the prince died again. Lodovico. There's twice; beware the third time. Antonio. The third time, he came here to them both in prison, Brought a pistol with him, would have forc'd her again; They kill'd the prince, but kept your son alive. Milan. Antonio! Omnes. The prince! [Discovers himself. Venice. Come home, my sister, to my heart. man. Antonio. Oh, sir, here dwells virtue epitomiz❜d, Even to an abstract, and yet that so large "Twill swell a book in folio. Lodovico. She swells beyond my wife then: A pocket-book, bound in decimo sexto, Will hold her virtues, and as much spare paper left Milan. But here's the wonder; who is it was slain In your apparel ? Philippo. I will give them all the slip. [Offers to go. Philippo. As you are noble Antonio. That saw them fight: it was the slave was I took before Palermo: he that kill'd him, 21 Debosh'd.] See Mr. Steevens's note on Tempest, A. 3. S. 2. And, as this eye-witness says, he in my apparel Philippo. Nay, upon my life, sir, He in your apparel gave the first kick: I saw them fight, He never saw your grace. Milan. Then he kill'd him fairly? Venice. T'other had but his merit then who dies, And seeks his death, seldom wets others' eyes. Antonio. Let this persuade you I believe you noble ; I have kept my word with you. Philippo. You have out-done me, sir, In this brave exercise of honour: but let me, Omnes. Philippo! Philippo. Unwittingly I did an ill (as 't happen'd) To a good end: that slave I for you kill'd Wanted but time to kill you: read that paper, Which I found with him, I thinking by accident You had intercepted it. We all have happily Been well deceiv'd; you are noble, just, and true; My hate was at your cloaths, my heart at you. Verona. An accident more strange hath seldom happen'd. Lorenzo. Philippo, my best friend, 'twixt shame and love, Here let me lay thee now for ever. Abstemia. Heaven Hath now plain'd all our rough woes smooth and even. [Exeunt omnes. 345 EDITION. The City Night-Cap: or, Crede quod habes, et habes. a Tragi-comedy. By Robert Davenport. As it was acted with great applause, by Her Majesties Servants, at the Phoenix in Drury-lane. London: Printed by Ja. Cottrel, for Samuel Speed, at the signe of the Printing-Press, in St. Paul's Church-yard. 1661. 4to. |