Five Revenge Tragedies: The Spanish Tragedy, Hamlet, Antonio's Revenge, The Tragedy of Hoffman, The Revenger's Tragedy (Penguin Classics)

by William Shakespeare

  30 Balurdo. In truth, one told me that my wit was bald, and that a mermaid was half fish, and half fish; and therefore to speak wisely, like one of your council, as indeed it hath pleased you to make me of your council, being a fool: if my wit be bald, and a mermaid be half fish and half conger, then I must be forced to conclude, the tiring man hath not glued on my beard half fast enough, God’s bores, it will not stick to fall off.

  Piero. Dost thou know what thou hast spoken all this while?

  Balurdo. O, lord duke, I would be sorry of that. Many men can utter that which no man but themselves can conceive, but I thank a good wit, I have the gift to speak that which neither any man else, nor myself understands.

  Piero. Thou are wise. He that speaks he knows not what, shall never sin against his own conscience: go to, thou art wise.

  Balurdo. Wise? O no. I have a little natural discretion, or so: but or wise, I am somewhat prudent: but for wise, O lord –

  40 Piero. Hold, take those keys, open the castle vault, and put in Mellida.

  Balurdo. And put in Mellida? Well, let me alone.

  Piero. Bid Forobosco and Castilio guard,

  Endear thyself Piero’s intimate.

  Balurdo. Endear and intimate: good, I assure you. I will endear and intimate Mellida into the dungeon presently.

  Piero. Will Pandulpho Feliche wait on me?

  Balurdo. I will make him come, most retort and obtuse, to you presently. I think Sir Geoffrey talks like a councillor.

  50 Go to, God’s neaks: I think I tickle it.

  Piero. I’ll seem to wind yon fool with kindest arm.

  He that’s ambitious-minded, and but man,

  Must have his followers beasts, dubbed slavish sots

  Whose service is obedience, and whose wit

  Reacheth no further than to admire their lord,

  And stare in adoration of his worth.

  I love a slave raked out of common mud

  Should seem to sit in council with my heart –

  High honoured blood’s too squeamish to assent,

  60 And lend a hand to an ignoble act.

  Poison from roses who could e’er abstract?

  How now, Pandulpho, weeping for thy son?

  Act 2

  Scene 2

  Enter Pandulpho.

  Pandulpho. No, no, Piero, weeping for my sins:

  Had I been a good father, he had been a gracious son.

  Piero. Pollution must be purged.

  Pandulpho. Why taint’st thou then the air with stench of flesh,

  And human putrefaction’s noisome scent?

  I pray his body. Who less boon can crave,

  Than to bestow upon the dead his grave?

  Piero. Grave? Why? Think’st thou he deserves a grave,

  That hath defiled the temple of –

  10 Pandulpho. Peace, peace:

  Methinks I hear a humming murmur creep

  From out his jellied wounds. look on those lips,

  Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender softness

  Chaste modest speech, stealing from out his breast,

  Had wont to rest itself, as loath to post

  From out so fair an inn: look, look, they seem to stir,

  And breathe defiance to black obloquy.

  Piero. Think’st thou thy son could suffer wrongfully?

  Pandulpho. A wise man wrongfully, but never wrong

  20 Can take: his breast’s of such well-tempered proof,

  It may be raced, not pierced by savage tooth

  Of foaming malice. Showers of darts may dark

  Heaven’s ample brow, but not strike out a spark,

  Much less pierce the sun’s cheek. Such songs as these,

  I often dittied till my boy did sleep.

  But now I turn plain fool: alas, I weep.

  Piero. [Aside] ’Fore heaven he makes me shrug: would ’a were dead:

  He is a virtuous man. What has our court to do

  With virtue, in the devil’s name! Pandulpho, hark.

  30 My lustful daughter dies. Start not, she dies.

  I pursue justice, I love sanctity,

  And an undefiled temple of pure thoughts.

  Shall I speak freely? Good Andrugio’s dead,

  And I do fear a fetch – but, umh, would I durst speak –

  I do mistrust – but, umh – death! [Aside] Is he all, all man:

  Hath he no part of mother in him, ha?

  No lickerish woman’s inquisitiveness?

  Pandulpho. Andrugio’s dead!

  Piero. Ay, and I fear his own unnatural blood,

  40 To whom he gave life, hath given death for life.

  [Aside] How could he come on, I see false suspect

  Is viced, wrung hardly in a virtuous heart.

  Well, I could give you reason for my doubts:

  You are of honoured birth, my very friend.

  You know how godlike ’tis to root out sin.

  Antonio is a villain. Will you join

  In oath with me, against the traitor’s life,

  And swear, you knew he sought his father’s death?

  I loved him well, yet I love justice more:

  50 Our friends we should affect, justice adore.

  Pandulpho. My lord, the clapper of my mouth’s not glibbed

  With court oil: ’twill not strike on both sides yet.

  Piero. ’Tis just that subjects act commands of kings.

  Pandulpho. Command then just and honourable things.

  Piero. Even so myself then will traduce his guilt.

  Pandulpho. Beware, take heed, lest guiltless blood be spilt.

  Piero. Where only honest deeds to kings are free,

  It is no empire, but a beggary.

  Pandulpho. Where more than noble deeds to kings are free.

  60 It is no empire, but a tyranny.

  Piero. Tush, juiceless greybeard, ’tis immunity,

  Proper to princes, that our state exacts:

  Our subjects not alone to bear, but praise our acts.

  Pandulpho. O, but that prince that worthful praise aspires,

  From hearts, and not from lips, applause desires.

  Piero. Pish, true praise the brow of common men doth ring,

  False only girts the temple of a king.

  He that hath strength and’s ignorant of power,

  He was not made to rule, but to be ruled.

  70 Pandulpho. ’Tis praise to do not what we can but should.

  Piero. Hence, doting Stoic! By my hope of bliss,

  I’ll make thee wretched.

  Pandulpho. Defiance to thy power, thou rifted chawn!

  Now, by the loved heaven, sooner thou shalt

  Rinse thy foul ribs from the black filth of sin,

  That soots thy heart, then make me wretched. Pish,

  Thou canst not coop me up! Hadst thou a jail

  With treble walls, like antique Babylon,

  Pandulpho can get out. I tell thee, duke,

  80 I have old Fortunatus’ wishing cap,

  And can be where I list, even in a trice.

  I’ll skip from earth into the arms of heaven:

  And from triumphal arch of blessedness,

  Spit on thy frothy breast. Thou canst not slave

  Or banish me: I will be free at home,

  Maugre the beard of greatness. The portholes

  Of sheathed spirits are ne’er corbed up:

  But still stand open ready to discharge

  Their precious shot into the shrouds of heaven.

  90 Piero. O torture! Slave, I banish thee the town,

  Thy native seat of birth –

  Pandulpho. How proud thou speak’st! I tell thee, duke: the blasts

  Of the swollen-cheeked winds, nor all the breath of kings

  Can puff me out my native seat of birth.

  The earth’s my body’s, and the heaven’s my soul’s

  Most native place of birth, which they will keep,

  Despite the menace of m
ortality.

  Why duke:

  That’s not my native place, where I was rocked,

  100 A wise man’s home is wheresoe’er he is wise.

  Now that from man, not from the place, doth rise.

  Piero. Would I were deaf – O plague! – hence, dotard wretch:

  Tread not in court. All that thou hast, I seize.

  [Aside] His quiet’s firmer than I can disease.

  Pandulpho. Go, boast unto thy flattering sycophants:

  Pandulpho’s slave, Piero hath o’erthrown.

  Loose fortune’s rags are lost; my own’s my own.

  Piero’s going out, looks back.

  ’Tis true Piero, thy vexed heart shall see,

  Thou hast but tripped my slave, not conquered me.

  Exeunt at several doors.

  Act 2

  Scene 3

  Enter Antonio with a book; lucio, Alberto, Antonio in black.

  Alberto. Nay, sweet, be comforted, take counsel and –

  Antonio. Alberto, peace: that grief is wanton sick

  Whose stomach can digest and brook the diet

  Of stale ill-relished counsel. Pigmy cares

  Can shelter under patience shield: but giant griefs

  Will burst all covert.

  Lucio. My lord, ’tis suppertime.

  Antonio. Drink deep, Alberto; eat, good lucio:

  But my pined heart shall eat on naught but woe.

  10 Alberto. My lord, we dare not leave you thus alone.

  Antonio. You cannot leave Antonio alone.

  The chamber of my breast is even thronged

  With firm attendance that forswears to flinch.

  I have a thing sits here: it is not grief,

  ’Tis not despair, nor the most plague

  That the most wretched are infected with;

  But the most grief-full, despairing, wretched,

  Accursed, miserable – O, for heaven’s sake

  Forsake me now: you see how light I am,

  20 And yet you force me to defame my patience.

  Lucio. Fair gentle prince –

  Antonio. Away, thy voice is hateful: thou dost buzz

  And beat my ears with intimations

  That Mellida, that Mellida is light,

  And stained with adulterous luxury:

  I cannot brook’t. I tell thee, lucio,

  Sooner will I give faith, that virtue’s cant

  In princes’ courts will be adorned with wreath

  Of choice respect, and endeared intimate;

  30 Sooner will I believe that friendship’s rein

  Will curb ambition from utility,

  Than Mellida is light. Alas, poor soul!

  Didst e’er see her, good heart, hast heard her speak?

  Kind, kind soul, incredulity itself

  Would not be so brass-hearted, as suspect so modest cheeks.

  Lucio. My lord –

  Antonio. Away, a self-one guilt doth only hatch distrust:

  But a chaste thought’s as far from doubt as lust.

  I intreat you leave me.

  40 Alberto. Will you endeavour to forget your grief?

  Antonio. I’faith I will, good friend, i’faith I will.

  I’ll come and eat with you. Alberto, see,

  I am taking physic, here’s philosophy.

  Good honest leave me, I’ll drink wine anon.

  Alberto. Since you enforce us, fair prince, we are gone.

  Exeunt Alberto and lucio.

  Antonio reads.

  Antonio. Ferte fortiter: hoc est quo deum antecedatis. Ille enim extra patientiam malorum; vos supra. Contemnite dolorem: aut solvertur, aut solvet. Contemnite fortunam: nullum telum, quo feriret animum habet.

  50 Pish, thy mother was not lately widowed,

  Thy dear affied love, lately defamed

  With blemish of foul lust, when thou wrot’st thus.

  Thou wrapped in furs, beaking thy limbs ’fore fires,

  Forbid’st the frozen zone to shudder. Ha, ha! ’tis naught,

  But foamy bubbling of a fleamy brain,

  Naught else but smoke. O what dank marish spirit,

  But would be fired with impatience,

  At my – no more, no more: he that was never blest,

  With height of birth, fair expectation

  60 Of mounted fortunes, knows not what it is

  To be the pitied object of the world.

  O, poor Antonio, thou mayest sigh –

  [Mellida, Pandulpho Feliche, Maria and Alberto, speaking from offstage.]

  Mellida. Ay me!

  Antonio. And curse –

  Pandulpho. Black powers.

  Antonio. And cry –

  Maria. O heaven!

  Antonio. And close laments with –

  Alberto. O me most miserable!

  70 Pandulpho. Woe for my dear, dear son!

  Maria. Woe for my dear, dear husband!

  Mellida. Woe for my dear, dear love!

  Antonio. Woe for me all, close all your woes in me,

  In me, Antonio, ha? Where live these sounds?

  I can see nothing: grief’s invisible,

  And lurks in secret angles of the heart –

  Come, sigh again, Antonio bears his part.

  Mellida. [Behind a grating.] O here, here is a vent to pass my sighs.

  I have surcharged the dungeon with my plaints.

  80 Prison, and heart will burst, if void of vent.

  Ay, that is Phoebe, empress of the night,

  That ’gins to mount: O chastest deity,

  If I be false to my Antonio,

  If the least soil of lust smears my pure love,

  Make me more wretched, make me more accursed

  Than infamy, torture, death, hell and heaven

  Can bound with amplest power of thought. If not,

  Purge my poor heart from defamation’s blot.

  Antonio. Purge my poor heart from defamation’s blot!

  90 Poor heart, how like her virtuous self she speaks.

  Mellida, dear Mellida, it is Antonio!

  Slink not away, ’tis thy Antonio.

  Mellida. How found you out, my lord? Alas, I know

  ’Tis easy in this age, to find out woe.

  I have a suit to you.

  Antonio. What is’t, dear soul?

  Mellida. Kill me. I’faith I’ll wink, not stir a jot –

  For God’s sake kill me. In sooth, loved youth,

  I am much injured; look, see how I creep.

  100 I cannot wreak my wrong, but sigh and weep.

  Antonio. May I be cursed, but I credit thee.

  Mellida. Tomorrow I must die.

  Antonio. Alas, for what?

  Mellida. For loving thee. ’Tis true, my sweetest breast,

  I must die falsely: so must thou, dear heart.

  Nets are a-knitting to entrap thy life.

  Thy father’s death must make a paradise

  To my – I shame to call him – father. Tell me, sweet,

  Shall I die thine? dost love me still, and still?

  110 Antonio. I do.

  Mellida. Then welcome heaven’s will.

  Antonio. Madam, I will not swell like a tragedian,

  In forced passion of affected strains.

  If I had present power of aught but pitying you,

  I would be as ready to redress your wrongs,

  As to pursue your love. Throngs of thoughts

  Crowd for their passage, somewhat I will do.

  Reach me thy hand: think this is honour’s bent.

  To live unslaved, to die innocent.

  120 Mellida. let me entreat a favour, gracious love –

  Be patient, see me die: good, do not weep:

  Go sup, sweet chuck; drink, and securely sleep.

  Antonio. I’faith I cannot, but I’ll force my face

  To palliate my sickness.

  Mellida. Give me thy hand. Peace on thy bosom dwell;

  That’s all my woe can breathe: k
iss. Thus farewell.

  Antonio. Farewell: my heart is great of thoughts,

  Stay dove:

  And therefore I must speak: but what? O love!

  130 By this white hand, no more: read in these tears,

  What crushing anguish Antonio bears.

  Antonio kisseth Mellida’s hand: then Mellida goes from the grate.

  Mellida. Good night, good heart.

  Antonio. Thus heat from blood, thus souls from bodies part.

  Enter Piero and Strotzo.

  Piero. He grieves, laugh Strotzo; laugh, he weeps.

  Hath he tears? O pleasure! hath he tears?

  Now do I scourge Andrugio with steel whips

  Of knotty vengeance. Strotzo, cause me straight

  Some plaining ditty to augment despair.

  Triumph, Piero: hark he groans, o rare!

  140 Antonio. Behold a prostrate wretch laid on his tomb.

  His epitaph, thus: Ne plus ultra. Ho!

  Let none outwoe me: mine’s Herculean woe.

  [Song.] Exit Piero at the end of the song.

  Act 2

  Scene 4

  Enter Maria.

  Antonio. May I be more cursed than heaven can make me.

  If I am not more wretched

  Than man can conceive me. Sore forlorn

  Orphan, what omnipotence can make thee happy?

  Maria. How now, sweet son? good youth, what dost thou?

  Antonio. Weep, weep.

  Maria. Dost naught but weep, weep?

  Antonio. Yes mother, I do sigh and wring my hands,

  Beat my poor breast, and wreathe my tender arms.

  10 Hark ye, I’ll tell you wondrous strange, strange news.

  Maria. What my good boy, stark mad?

  Antonio. I am not.

  Maria. Alas, is that strange news?

  Antonio. Strange news? Why mother, is’t not wondrous strange

  I am not mad? I run not frantic, ha?

  Knowing my father’s trunk scarce cold, your love

  Is sought by him that doth pursue my life?

  Seeing the beauty of creation,

  Antonio’s bride, pure heart, defamed and stowed

  20 Under the hatches of obscuring earth.

  Heu quo labor, quo vota ceciderunt mea!

  Enter Piero.

  Piero. Good evening to the fair Antonio.

  Most happy fortune, sweet succeeding time,

  Rich hope: think not thy fate a bankrupt though –

  Antonio. Umh, the devil in his good time and tide forsake thee.

  Piero. How now? hark ye, prince.

  Antonio. God be with you.

  Piero. Nay, noble blood, I hope ye not suspect –

  Antonio. Suspect, I scorn’t. Here’s cap and leg; good night: