The Duchess of Malfi John Webster (intellectual books to read TXT) š
- Author: John Webster
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The accent of the voice sounds not in jest:
Iāll down to him, howsoever, and with engines
Force ope the doors. Exit above. Roderigo
Letās follow him aloof,
And note how the cardinal will laugh at him.
Thereās for you first,
āCause you shall not unbarricade the door
To let in rescue. Kills the Servant.
What cause hast thou to pursue my life?
BosolaLook there.
CardinalAntonio!
BosolaSlain by my hand unwittingly.
Pray, and be sudden. When thou killādāst thy sister,
Thou tookāst from Justice her most equal balance,
And left her naught but her sword.
O, mercy!
BosolaNow it seems thy greatness was only outward;
For thou fallāst faster of thyself than calamity
Can drive thee. Iāll not waste longer time; there! Stabs him.
Thou hast hurt me.
BosolaAgain!
CardinalShall I die like a leveret,
Without any resistance?ā āHelp, help, help!
I am slain!
Thā alarm! Give me a fresh horse;
Rally the vaunt-guard, or the day is lost,
Yield, yield! I give you the honour of arms
Shake my sword over you; will you yield?
Help me; I am your brother!
FerdinandThe devil!
My brother fight upon the adverse party!
There flies your ransom.
CardinalO justice!
I suffer now for what hath former bin:
Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin.
Now my revenge is perfect.ā āSink, thou main cause Kills Ferdinand.
Of my undoing!ā āThe last part of my life
Hath done me best service.
Give me some wet hay; I am broken-winded.
I do account this world but a dog-kennel:
I will vault credit and affect high pleasures
Beyond death.
He seems to come to himself,
Now heās so near the bottom.
My sister, O my sister! thereās the cause onāt.
Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust,
Like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust. Dies.
Thou hast thy payment too.
BosolaYes, I hold my weary soul in my teeth;
āTis ready to part from me. I do glory
That thou, which stoodāst like a huge pyramid
Begun upon a large and ample base,
Shalt end in a little point, a kind of nothing.
How now, my lord!
MalatestiO sad disaster!
RoderigoHow comes this?
BosolaRevenge for the Duchess of Malfi murdered
By the Arragonian brethren; for Antonio
Slain by this hand; for lustful Julia
Poisonād by this man; and lastly for myself,
That was an actor in the main of all
Much āgainst mine own good nature, yet iā the end
Neglected.
How now, my lord!
CardinalLook to my brother:
He gave us these large wounds, as we were struggling
Here iā thā rushes. And now, I pray, let me
Be laid by and never thought of. Dies.
How fatally, it seems, he did withstand
His own rescue!
Thou wretched thing of blood,
How came Antonio by his death?
In a mist; I know not how:
Such a mistake as I have often seen
In a play. O, I am gone!
We are only like dead walls or vaulted graves,
That, ruinād, yield no echo. Fare you well.
It may be pain, but no harm, to me to die
In so good a quarrel. O, this gloomy world!
In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness,
Doth womanish and fearful mankind live!
Let worthy minds neāer stagger in distrust
To suffer death or shame for what is just:
Mine is another voyage. Dies.
The noble Delio, as I came to thā palace,
Told me of Antonioās being here, and showād me
A pretty gentleman, his son and heir.
O sir, you come too late!
DelioI heard so, and
Was armād forāt, ere I came. Let us make noble use
Of this great ruin; and join all our force
To establish this young hopeful gentleman
Inās motherās right. These wretched eminent things
Leave no more fame behind āem, than should one
Fall in a frost, and leave his print in snow;
As soon as the sun shines, it ever melts,
Both form and matter. I have ever thought
Nature doth nothing so great for great men
As when sheās pleasād to make them lords of truth:
Integrity of life is fameās best friend,
Which nobly, beyond death, shall crown the end.
The twelfth Lord Berkeley. āMy good lord,ā says Massinger, inscribing The Renegado to him, āto be honoured for old nobility or hereditary titles, is not alone proper to yourself, but to some few of your rank, who may challenge the like privilege with you: but in our age to vouchsafe (as you have often done) a ready hand to raise the dejected spirits of the contemned sons of the Muses, such as would not suffer the glorious fire of poesy to be wholly extinguished, is so remarkable and peculiar to your lordship, that, with a full vote and suffrage, it is acknowledged that the patronage and protection of the dramatic poem is yours and almost without a rival.ā ā©
Prevent. ā©
The reference is to the knightly sport of riding at the ring. ā©
At the expense of. ā©
Rolls of lint used to dress wounds. ā©
Surgeons. ā©
A small horse. ā©
Ballasted. ā©
A lively dance. ā©
Throws into the shade. ā©
At the
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