ACT II. MONTANO and VASQUEZ. Mont. My plague in Venice? 'tis impossible! Where saw you her? Vasq. Close by the city gate She sat and fixt the gaze of all beholders. At first, my lord, I doubted whether I could trust their functions, Mont. On with your tale. Vasq. She looked at it as one would look on joy Long parted with; then gaz'd upon her child, Then on the picture, then again on him, To note each line and feature of resemblance, Peace, Mont. At least her beauty did persuade me so: But of Brianthe Vasq. Mont. Sullen and cold she What of her, my lord? yet disdains my love. But I have wherewithal to make her mine, Or much my hope deceives me. - Couldst thou not Deposit this where it may meet her Unseen of any else? Vasq. eye No doubt, my lord. Mont. It is a letter from that shrew Rodone, Fill'd with a long detail of raptures past, And hopes of coming joy. Vasq. (Gives him the letter.) Address'd to Valletort. Mont. About it quick, and tell me it is done. Vasq. Where shall we meet again? Mont. You'll find me here. [Exit VASQ. This cannot fail: there is a sting in it, Which rooted once, and rankling in the heart, I cannot reach why then to rouse her vengeance. Pride she undoubted has, for she's a woman, And woman, when her pride roams for revenge, Is little nice about the instrument ; But like the heedless whirlwind in her rage To serve the present working of her hate, I'll bury there my love and deep revenge; That I must pluck this coy retiring flower, Enter VALLETORT. Friend Valletort, why thou look'st melancholy: Vall. I have just parted from her. My wife, Montano, Mont. Oh, she hath rail'd Upon your truantry, and dinn'd your ears A bugbear that much frights unpractised sinners; Vall. Peace, peace, Montano: However we affect to laugh it off, Reflexion's sober time will come at last ; Adding fresh items to the heavy balance.— Mont. Oh! I can fancy it, for I have heard A woman's murmurings. Vall. She murmur'd not, Or if she murmur'd, 'twas but with a smile, * This passage is extracted from the Author's early poem of The Prisoner. And as we parted, turn'd her head aside, And (like the prophet's touch from Horeb's rock) And wafts me backwards. Mont. They are coz'ners all, Sigh when they list, like reeds to every breeze, For smiles and tears are women's sorceries, Vall. I'll go no more. Mont. What! when luxuriant beauty, such as hers, Panting and ripe, a banquet for a god! Val. Oh, talk not of her, I am mad already. Mont. For which immortal Jove had left his skies, And Mahomet renounc'd his fancied heaven. |