Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois Part 21

There's too much distance, and too many locks 105 Twixt you and them (how neere so e're they seeme) For any man to interrupt their secrets.

_Tam._ O honour'd spirit, flie into the fancie Of my offended lord; and doe not let him Beleeve what there the wicked man hath written. 110

_Beh._ Perswasion hath already enter'd him Beyond reflection; peace, till their departure!

_Monsieur._ There is a gla.s.se of ink where you may see How to make ready black fac'd tragedy: You now discerne, I hope, through all her paintings, 115 Her gasping wrinkles and fames sepulchres.

_Guise._ Think you he faines, my lord? what hold you now?

Doe we maligne your wife, or honour you?

_Mons._ What, stricken dumb! Nay fie, lord, be not danted: Your case is common; were it ne're so rare, 120 Beare it as rarely! Now to laugh were manly.

A worthy man should imitate the weather, That sings in tempests, and being cleare, is silent.

_Gui._ Goe home, my lord, and force your wife to write Such loving lines to D'Ambois as she us'd 125 When she desir'd his presence.

_Mons._ Doe, my lord, And make her name her conceal'd messenger, That close and most inennerable pander, That pa.s.seth all our studies to exquire: By whom convay the letter to her love; 130 And so you shall be sure to have him come Within the thirsty reach of your revenge.

Before which, lodge an ambush in her chamber, Behind the arras, of your stoutest men All close and soundly arm'd; and let them share 135 A spirit amongst them that would serve a thousand.

_Enter Pero with a letter._

_Gui._ Yet, stay a little: see, she sends for you.

_Mons._ Poore, loving lady, she'le make all good yet; Think you not so, my lord? _Mont[surry] stabs Pero, and exit._

_Gui._ Alas, poore soule!

_Mons._ This was cruelly done, y'faith.

_Pero._ T'was n.o.bly done; 140 And I forgive his lords.h.i.+p from my soule.

_Mons._ Then much good doo't thee, Pero! hast a letter?

_Per._ I hope it rather be a bitter volume Of worthy curses for your perjury.

_Gui._ To you, my lord.

_Mons._ To me? Now out upon her! 145

_Gui._ Let me see, my lord.

_Mons._ You shall presently: how fares my Pero? _Enter Servant._ Who's there? Take in this maid, sh'as caught a clap, And fetch my surgeon to her. Come, my lord, We'l now peruse our letter.

_Exeunt Mons[ieur], Guise. Lead her out._

_Per._ Furies rise 150 Out of the black lines, and torment his soule!

_Tam._ Hath my lord slaine my woman?

_Beh._ No, she lives.

_Fri._ What shall become of us?

_Beh._ All I can say, Being call'd thus late, is briefe, and darkly this:-- If D'Ambois mistresse die not her white hand 155 In her forc'd bloud, he shall remaine untoucht: So, father, shall your selfe, but by your selfe.

To make this augurie plainer, when the voyce Of D'Amboys shall invoke me, I will rise s.h.i.+ning in greater light, and shew him all 160 That will betide ye all. Meane time be wise, And curb his valour with your policies. _Descendit c.u.m suis._

_Buss._ Will he appeare to me when I invoke him?

_Fri._ He will, be sure.

_Buss._ It must be shortly, then, For his dark words have tyed my thoughts on knots 165 Till he dissolve and free them.

_Tam._ In meane time, Deare servant, till your powerfull voice revoke him, Be sure to use the policy he advis'd; Lest fury in your too quick knowledge taken Of our abuse, and your defence of me, 170 Accuse me more than any enemy.

And, father, you must on my lord impose Your holiest charges, and the Churches power, To temper his hot spirit, and disperse The cruelty and the bloud I know his hand 175 Will showre upon our heads, if you put not Your finger to the storme, and hold it up, As my deare servant here must doe with Monsieur.

_Buss._ Ile sooth his plots, and strow my hate with smiles, Till all at once the close mines of my heart 180 Rise at full date, and rush into his bloud: Ile bind his arme in silk, and rub his flesh To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush Into some kennell where it longs to lie; And policy shall be flanckt with policy. 185 Yet shall the feeling Center where we meet Groane with the wait of my approaching feet: Ile make th'inspired threshals of his Court Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps, Before I enter: yet will I appeare 190 Like calme security before a ruine.

A politician must, like lightning, melt The very marrow, and not taint the skin: His wayes must not be seene; the superficies Of the greene Center must not taste his feet, 195 When h.e.l.l is plow'd up with his wounding tracts, And all his harvest reap't by h.e.l.lish facts. _Exeunt._

_Finis Actus Quarti._

LINENOTES:

_Enter D'Ambois and Frier_ and 1-19 _I am . . .

despaire_. A omits.

18 _th[e]_. Emend, ed.; B, th.

_Tamira enters_. A, she enters. _Pero, her maid_.

Emend. Dilke; A, her maid; B, Pero and her maid.

22 _curst_. A omits.

25 After this line A has Father, followed by stage direction: _Ascendit Bussy with Comolet._

28-31 _Our love is knowne; . . . but he_. Omitted in A, which has instead:--

_Buss._ What insensate stocke, Or rude inanimate vapour without fas.h.i.+on.

_He puts on his robes._ A omits.

_Thunder._ A omits.

78 _Articulat_. In some copies of B this is printed: Articular.

80 _one_. A; B, on.