Scene
I
Malfi. An apartment in the palace of the Duchess.
Enter Antonio and Delio.
Antonio
Our noble friend, my most beloved Delio!
O, you have been a stranger long at court:
Came you along with the Lord Ferdinand?
Delio
I did, sir: and how fares your noble duchess?
Antonio
Right fortunately well: she’s an excellent
Feeder of pedigrees; since you last saw her,
She hath had two children more, a son and daughter.
Delio
Methinks ’twas yesterday. Let me but wink,
And not behold your face, which to mine eye
Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dream
It were within this half hour.
Antonio
You have not been in law, friend Delio,
Nor in prison, nor a suitor at the court,
Nor begg’d the reversion of some great man’s place,
Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth make
Your time so insensibly hasten.
Delio
Pray, sir, tell me,
Hath not this news arriv’d yet to the ear
Of the lord cardinal?
Antonio
I fear it hath:
The Lord Ferdinand, that’s newly come to court,
Doth bear himself right dangerously.
Delio
Pray, why?
Antonio
He is so quiet that he seems to sleep
The tempest out, as dormice do in winter.
Those houses that are haunted are most still
Till the devil be up.
Delio
What say the common people?
Antonio
The common rabble do directly say
She is a strumpet.
Delio
And your graver heads
Which would be politic, what censure they?
Antonio
They do observe I grow to infinite purchase,
The left hand way; and all suppose the duchess
Would amend it, if she could; for, say they,
Great princes, though they grudge their officers
Should have such large and unconfined means
To get wealth under them, will not complain,
Lest thereby they should make them odious
Unto the people. For other obligation
Of love or marriage between her and me
They never dream of.
Delio
The Lord Ferdinand
Is going to bed.
Enter Duchess, Ferdinand, and Attendants.
Ferdinand
I’ll instantly to bed,
For I am weary.—I am to bespeak
A husband for you.
Duchess
For me, sir! Pray, who is’t?
Ferdinand
The great Count Malatesti.
Duchess
Fie upon him!
A count! He’s a mere stick of sugar-candy;
You may look quite through him. When I choose
A husband, I will marry for your honour.
Ferdinand
You shall do well in’t.—How is’t, worthy Antonio?
Duchess
But, sir, I am to have private conference with you
About a scandalous report is spread
Touching mine honour.
Ferdinand
Let me be ever deaf to’t:
One of Pasquil’s paper-bullets, court-calumny,
A pestilent air, which princes’ palaces
Are seldom purg’d of. Yet, say that it were true,
I pour it in your bosom, my fix’d love
Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, deny
Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe
In your own innocency.
Duchess
Aside. O bless’d comfort!
This deadly air is purg’d.
Exeunt Duchess, Antonio, Delio, and Attendants.
Ferdinand
Her guilt treads on
Hot-burning coulters.
Enter Bosala.
Now, Bosola,
How thrives our intelligence?
Bosola
Sir, uncertainly:
’Tis rumour’d she hath had three bastards, but
By whom we may go read i’ the stars.
Ferdinand
Why, some
Hold opinion all things are written there.
Bosola
Yes, if we could find spectacles to read them.
I do suspect there hath been some sorcery
Us’d on the duchess.
Ferdinand
Sorcery! to what purpose?
Bosola
To make her dote on some desertless fellow
She shames to acknowledge.
Ferdinand
Can your faith give way
To think there’s power in potions or in charms,
To make us love whether we will or no?
Bosola
Most certainly.
Ferdinand
Away! these are mere gulleries, horrid things,
Invented by some cheating mountebanks
To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or charms
Can force the will? Some trials have been made
In this foolish practice, but the ingredients
Were lenitive poisons, such as are of force
To make the patient mad; and straight the witch
Swears by equivocation they are in love.
The witchcraft lies in her rank blood. This night
I will force confession from her. You told me
You had got, within these two days, a false key
Into her bedchamber.
Bosola
I have.
Ferdinand
As I would wish.
Bosola
What do you intend to do?
Ferdinand
Can you guess?
Bosola
No.
Ferdinand
Do not ask, then:
He that can compass me, and know my drifts,
May say he hath put a girdle ’bout the world,
And sounded all her quicksands.
Bosola
I do not
Think so.
Ferdinand
What do you think, then, pray?
Bosola
That you
Are your own chronicle too much, and grossly
Flatter yourself.
Ferdinand
Give me thy hand; I thank thee:
I never gave pension but to flatterers,
Till I entertained thee. Farewell.
That friend a great man’s ruin strongly checks,
Who rails into his belief all his defects.
Exeunt.