Caesar Borgia; SON OF Pope Alexander THE six: A TRAGEDY Acted at the Duke's Theatre BY Their Royal highness's Servants. Written by NAT. LEE.  
LONDON: Printed by R. E. for R. Bentley, and M. Magnes, in Russel-Street in Covent-Garden, near the Piazza. 1680.   

To the Right Honourable PHILIP, Earl of PEMBROKE, and MONTGOMERY, etc.  
My Lord,  
WHen an Universal Consternation spreads through the Kingdom, and the Peace which every man enjoys, becomes dreadful to him; when men's minds in this dead calm of State, are as busy, as 'tis feared, the hands of some would be in the Tempest of a Battle, to see a Poet plotting in his Chamber quite another way, painting fast as vigorous Fancy can inspire him, drawing the past World, the present, and to come, in a narrow space, is an Image not unworthy a grave Man's Contemplation. It is the business of poor Poets to be the diversion of Mankind; pleasure is their being. I think I may call 'em the Mistresses of the World; which if granted, I am sure 'tis easy to prove their Gallants very brutish, for they generally loathe them as soon as they are enjoyed: The best of 'em come under the severest lash of the greatest Men; nay, the least will be shootting their Bolts, and when the Mastiffs worry 'em, the little curs will be barking; the whole World censures, and every daring Poet that comes forth, must expect to be like the Almanac Hero, all over wounds. For my own part, I have been so harshly handled by some of 'em, that my Courage quite failed me; nor would I now appear in Print, but under the Protection and Patronage of your Lordship. Your Illustrious Forefathers, and indeed all your Eminent Relations, have always been of the First-rate Nobility, Patrons of Wit and Arms, magnificently brave, true old-stampt Britain's, and ever foremost in the Race of Glory. Not to unravel half your Honourable Records, I challenge all the Men of Fame, to show an Equal to the Immortal Sidney, even when so many contemporary Worthies flourished, I mean Sir Philip, the Name still of your Lordship, true Rival of your Honour, one that could match your Spirit, so most extravagantly great, that he refused to be a King. He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the leading Soldier, and the foremost Poet, all after this must fail: I have paid just Veneration to his Name, and methinks the Spirit of Shakespeare pushed the Commendation.  
That there are in your Lordship all these Excellent Grains which made this Perfect Man, I think myself bound by reason to tell the World, which to my particular observation and certain knowledge has done you wrong. I must acknowledge, that your boiling Youth has made great Salleys; and so did Alexander, and our Great Fifth Henry: Your Spirit complains as Alexander's did, for Action, who grudged his Father's Conquests, as if his Soul was pent, and wanted Elbow-room, resolved to go Abroad o'er Walls, if not through Doors; and Men of Sense laugh at your precise Fellow, your Cynic in a Tub, who thwarts the course of Nature, and is never pleased, but when he sees grey Heirs upon a young Head. If to be truly Valiant, even in cold Blood, Magnificent as the old Nobility, infinitely Charitable, modest as Humility itself, the fastest Friend upon Earth, where your Lordship is pleased to fix the Honour; if these Ingredients can compound one admirable Man, then may your Lordship stand forth a Monument of lasting Honour. Perhaps for this I shall incur the notion of a Flatterer: Flattery indeed is a Catholic ill, it passes through the World, and suits with all Complexions: 'Tis an insinuating Poison, a Iesuit's Powder, which seems to intend the Cure of the Disease it promotes; I am confident, all those who have the honour of your Lordship's Acquaintance, will tell me I have said too little. Let it suffice, that I imitate the best of Poets in a short but hearty Acknowledgement of my Obligations to your Lordship.  
Therefore I hope, as your Lordship's Great Uncle shone upon the mighty Ben. with a full Favour, (though my best Merits are not the ten thousand part of his smallest labours) your Lordship's infinite goodness will accept of my honest intentions, which to your Lordship's Service shall ever be humbly offered,  
By, my Lord, Your Lordship's most Humble And Obedient Servant, NAT. LEE.   

PROLOGUE,  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
TH' unhappy man, who once has trailed a Pen,  
Lives not to please himself but other Men:  
Is always drudging, wastes his Life and Blood,  
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good:  
What praise soe'er the Poetry deserve,  
Yet every Fool can bid the Poet starve:  
That fumbling Lecher to revenge is bent,  
Because he thinks himself or Whore is meant:  
Name but a Cuckold, all the City swarms  
From Leaden-hall to Ludgate is in Arms.  
Were there no fear of Antichrist or France,  
In the best times poor Poets live by chance.  
Either you come not here, or as you grace  
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,  
Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face.  
You sleep o'er Wit, and by my troth you may,  
Most of your Talents lie another way.  
You love to hear of some prodigious Tale,  
The Bell that tolled alone, or Irish Whale.  
News is your Food, and you enough provide,  
Both for yourselves and all the World beside.  
One Theatre there is of vast resort,  
Which whilom of Requests was called the Court.  
But now the great Exchange of News 'tis height,  
And full of hum and buzz from Noon till Night:  
Up Stairs and down you run as for a Race,  
And each man wears three Nations in his Face.  
So big you look, tho' Claret you retrench,  
That armed with bottled Ale; you huff the French:  
But all your Entertainment still is fed  
By Villains, in our own dull Island bred:  
Would you return to us, we dare engage  
To show you better Rogues upon the Stage:  
You know no Poison but plain Ratsbane here,  
Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere.  
They have a civil way in Italy  
By smelling a perfume to make you die,  
A Trick would make you lay your Snuff-box by.  
Murder's a Trade— so known and practised there,  
That 'tis Infallible as is the Chair—  
But mark their Feasts, you shall behold such Prank●,  
The Pope says Grace, but 'tis the Devil gives Thanks.   

Dramatis Personae  



Sons of Alexander the Sixth.  
Caesar Borgia, Mr. Betterton.  
Palante, Duke of Gandia. Mr. Williams.    
Machiavelli, Secretary of Florence. Mr. Smith.  
Paul Orsino, Head of the Factions against Borgia. Mr. Gillow.  
Ascanio Sforza, A Buffoon Cardinal. Mr. Lee.  
Vittellozzo, Chief of the Vitelli. Mr. Percival.  
Enna,  
Ange,  
Cardinals, etc.  
Bellamira, Daughter of Orsino. Mrs. Lee.  
Adorna, Her Kinswoman and Confident. Mrs. Price.  
Attendants, etc.   
The Scene ROME.   
Caesar Borgia.  

ACT I.  
SCENE I.  Scene is a Chamber of State, at distance are discovered little American Boys with Boxes of jewels in their hands; on each side of the Stage, from the flat Scene to the Chamber, long Indian Screnes are spread at their full length. Enter Alonzo, and Don Michael. D. Mich. 
ARE these the Presents, sayst thou, of the late  
New Cardinal Ascanio Sforza?  Alonz. 
They are; he offers thus to Machiavelli,  
And thinks that Gold may bribe him to betray  
The Duke Valentinois. But, Michael, tell me  
What does the World report of this Creation,  
Does it not rail, and gain, and bite the Pope?  D. Mich. 
Has it not Reason? For, betwixt ourselves,  
Would any man in his high Dignity  
So vilely sell the Glories of the Church?  
Twelve Cardinals at once created!  
Ascanio first, because he bids him most:  
A fine effeminate Villain, bred in Brothels,  
Senseless, illiterate, the Jeer of Rome,  
A blot to the whole See! One fitter far  
For Hospitals, that paints and patches up  
A wretched Carcase worried in the Stews.  
But, see! the gaudy Pageant moves this way:  
How spruce he looks! and with a Pocked Glass  
Surveys the gloating Image.  Alonz. 
All Luxury:  
I heard, the night succeeding his Creation,  
That he got drunk, and kissed the Prelates round  
For joy— But, see he comes; retire and leave me. Ex. D. Mich.  Enter Ascanio Sforza. Ascan. 
Well, Borgia, well! if I am not revenged!  
Was there none else in Rome, but Bellamira?  
Ah Bella, Bella, Bella, Bella, Bellamira!  
I saw her first at Mass, as I remember;  
Cherubin and Seraphin were nothing to her:  
Oh such a skin full of alluring flesh!  
Ah, such a ruddy, moist, and pouting Lip;  
Such Dimples, and such Eyes! such melting Eyes,  
Blacker than Sloes, and yet they sparkled fire,  
Then such a way she had to roll 'em round;  
As thus, and thus— a thousand amorous ways;  
And wink and gloat, and turn 'em to the corners—  Alonz. 
My Noble Lord!  Ascan. 
My dear, my dear Alonz!  
Nay, let me greet thee: 'twas the Father's Custom.  
But tell me, lovely, dear Alonzo, tell me:  
Thou hast the softest fine Complexion for  
A Lover; best take heed of walking late:  
Tell me I say, or I will pinch thy Cheek?  
Moves he this way, or does he teem alone  
With some state Birth? if so, I'll wait again.  Alonz. 
Whom does your Eminence intend?  Ascan. 
Thy Lord:  
Whom should I mean, intent, or think of else?  
Thy Lord and mine. Well he's an Oracle! intent!  
Why man, I dream of nothing else!  Alonz. 
But Wenches.  Ascan. 
O Machiavelli! there, there's a word, a sound,  
An Air, a blast, a Thunderclap of wit,  
To rouse our Foggy thick-sculled Cardinals:  
I'll say no more; Would he were Pope,  
Head of the Christian World, and I his Engine,  
His particular member, to bring, to cast,  
To throw, disperse, convey the warmest  
Sprinklings of his benediction.  Alonz. 
My Lord, I humbly offered your Address,  
While with an eye, swift as the Sun and piercing,  
He ran your Letter o'er: and sure it stirred him;  
For straight he turned, and darting me, he asked  
If the great Cardinal, meaning you, my Lord,  
Which shows the deep respect he bears your Person,  
Knew not that Borgia was his best of Friends.  
Borgia, he cried again, to whom the Lords  
Of Florence sent me their Ambassador  
With promised aid against the Rebel Orsins.  Ascan. 
Has he received— stay, I say, has he? here,  
Open thy Fist, now gripe me fast, and tell me.  Alonz. 
I durst not name your Presents;  
But, bowing, soon retired, and placed 'em here,  
That as he follows, he may view at once  
All your Magnificence— if ought of Earth  
His temper holds, this lightning will dissolve it:  
But see! He comes; be pleased, Sir, to retire,  
And you shall hear the Zeal with which I serve you.  Enter Machiavelli. Mach. 
Thus have I drawn the platform of their Fates;  
As oft I have beheld, by Master's hands,  
A Tale in painting admirably told;  
Here a soft Dido stabbed into the breast,  
A Hero there thrown headlong from a Window,  
To meet her Lover wracked upon the Shore:  
So have I formed in more than Brass or Marble,  
The Deaths of those whom I intent to hush.  
O, Caesar Borgia! such a Name and Nature!  
That is my second self; a Machiavelli!  
A Prince! who, by the vigour of this brain,  
Shall rise to the old height of Roman Tyrants.  Alonz. 
He deeply thinks; nor dare I interrupt him,  
Till he comes forward.  Ascan. 
Peace, and give him way— Oh such a Head-piece●●  Mach. 
In all my strict inquiries, all the Humours  
Which I have drained with more than Chemist's pains,  
I have not found a temper so complete  
To finish forth a greatness as my Caesar's.  
First; he's a Bastard, got in a fit of Nature!  
She shook him from her Nerves in a Convulsion;  
His Father stamped the Bullion in a heat,  
And taking from the Mint the fiery ore,  
His Image blessed, and cried, it is my own.  
Yet more, a Priest begot him, and 'tis thought  
That Earth is more obliged to Priests for Bodies,  
Than Heaven for Souls! nay, and a young Priest too,  
Perhaps in the Embraces of a Nun,  
Who ventured life to clasp the lusty joy.  Ascan. 
Oh, if a man could but hear him now! Brain, all brain;  
Alas, Alonzo, we are stuff to him—  
Mere Entrails, but the Guts of Government,  
Nothing to him— hark— he goes on—  Mach. 
Why, what a start of Nature is this man  
Whom by Ambition, not by Love I'll raise?  
Therefore Ascanio's new golden World,  
I gravely take, for ruin to the Bride,  
To her old doting Father, Brothers, Uncles,  
And the whole Race of Orsin and Vitelli  
Is sixt by Fate and me: No more! the fleeting Air  
May catch the sounds, and walls themselves have ears.  Alonz. 
My Lord! the Cardinal Ascanio coming 〈◊〉 bowing.  
Is planted to your order.  Mach. 
Let him hear us—  
Urge me no more,— for ●is impossible●  Alonz. 
My Lord, he thinks not so:  
He says your Voice is as the mouth of Heaven,  
Styles you a God, and in the extravagance  
Of his unbounded admiration, swears  
Nothing to you can be impossible.  Mach. 
Extravagance indeed!  
Yet such extravagance expresses love,  
And merits all my thanks: and had he mentioned  
Aught but the ruin of my best Friends,  
I would with all the Wings of expedition  
Have shot through 1000 bars to do him service.  Alonz. 
My Lord! he does not hint at Borgia's ruin.  Mach. 
Does he not wish that I should break the Nuptials?  
'Tis sure the Marriage I at first disliked;  
I pierced the Charmer with a narrow eye,  
And found how Wit and Beauty threatened in her,  
With all the subtlest graces, that might ●ull  
Stubborn ambition to inglorious rest:  
But love already had performed his part,  
And laid the Warring Borgia at her Feet,  
How then should I oppose his first Enjoyment,  
Who was his Legate, and solicited  
The Parents of the beauteous Bellamira.  Alonz. 
At least, Sir, for the future, lay some block  
That may disturb the progress of their loves;  
And since you have alleged 'tis for his glory  
This Marriage were undone; since it is done,  
Let it be hurtful in the consequence.  Mach. 
Thus I should prove indeed a Friend to Florence,  
Who hate Orsino's Race: Nay, I should act  
The truest Part of Friendship to my Borgia,  
Snatching this Soft'ner from his Warlike Bosom,  
And turning him new bent, for Arms and Glory●—  
Ha! What new Scene of Gallantry is this?  
Whence, and from whom comes this Magnificence?  
And wherefore kneel these Offerers at my Feet?  Alonz. 
They are the Children of the new-found World,  
The Forms of Zemes, called the Indian Gods.  Mach. 
Away with 'em, and bid 'em tell their Lord,  
Machiavel's Virtue never shall be bribed;  
And for their service give 'em twenty Crowns:  
But if thou darest to rob 'em of a Spangle,  
You know my humour,— never see me more.  Alonz. 
Doubt not, my Lord, but I'll observe your humour.—  
Come in, my Lord— I told you he would melt.  
Sir, the great Cardinal. So,— now they cringe;  
What, and embrace too! Oh thou damned, damned World!  
These will be heard, and make your Statesman smile,  
When Orphans, Widows, and the crippled Soldiers  
Are Elbowed off, and thrust away in frowns. Exit, with the Boyst  Mach. 
My Lord, you make me wonder! Sure you've been  
In love yourself with old Orsino's Daughter!  Ascan. 
Loved her, my Lord! witness these falling tears!  
Why do you thaw my Nature with your Questions?  
Witness bright Stars! witness you golden Planets●  
And all ye Woods, and all ye purling Streams;  
And Birds and Flocks, and Grots, and Rocks, and Flowers!  
Nay, Sir, I tell you, she was mine betrothed,  
If I could cast my Coat, which had been done,  
For nothing tickles the present Pope like Gold,  
Daz●es him that he weeps Indulgences,  
Forgives, absolves, all for Omnipotent Gold;  
Dispenses Pardons sometimes in a fury,  
He sends his Bulls abroad that roar like Thunder:  
When straight a golden Calm  
Comes o'er their backs, and then they're still as Lambs;  
Why should I hold you long amongst the rest,  
That saw her Borgia, that unlucky Bastard,  
Beheld and loved her.— I, my Lord, was ruined.  Mach. 
My Lord, I wish the Marriage may not prosper●  
He's bent to enjoy her, and in that I soothe him:  
For subtly offering once to bring him off,  
I found pale anger in his Face like Death,  
Whereon I feigned compliance, and have wrought  
The business to a head— But let time work,  
And rest assured, that what so mean a man  
As Machiavelli with honour can perform,  
To pay you perfect Service shall be done.  Ascan. 
My Lord! farewell— when I protest and swear,  
Even by the Altar of fair Bellamira,  
My life is yours: Believe I am your Servant,  
Not a step further by my Robe! your Captive,  
Your Eminence most humble Creature, Servant, Slave. Ex. Ascanio.  Mach. 
I am tied for ever. Walking.  
No dull Buffoon! thou walking lump of Lust;  
Not to revenge thy ungored appetite  
Shall Borgia kill her: But for his own Renown:  
He is my Champion-prince, Italian Tyrant,  
Not formed to languish in a Woman's Arms.  
Oh— 'tis a fault, were I so framed for greatness,  
ere I would amble in a Female Court,  
And cringe, and skip, and play the Lady's Cripple,  
I would be Gibbetted i'th' Common-way,  
For Crows and Daws to peck my Carrion Limbs.  
But I must rouse him, and I'll do't by Death,  
Even by the bloody Death of her he dotes on.  Enter Adorna. 
Here's one Ingredient I must mix to make  
The potion Death— The Wretch is deep in Love  
With Borgia's Brother, the young Duke of Gandia,  
That way I make her sure!  Ador. 
My Lord.  Mach. 
My dear Adorna,  
How goes the marriage forward? and how treats  
The gallant Borgia, great Valentinois,  
Romania's Duke his fair and Virgin Bride?  Ador. 
The Rites are to be solemnised this morning;  
Tho' Bellamira quite abhors the Marriage,  
Who still when Borgia humbly sues for Love;  
Answers him with her Tears, and pays his Vows  
With Ominous weeping.  Mach. 
And how takes he that?  Ador. 
He walks and muses deeply, speaks to no man,  
But Paul Orsino, whose most watchful wit  
I fear descries where she has locked her heart;  
With a bend brow he eyes the Duke of Gandia,  
Salutes him not of late: He came this morning  
Into her Chamber; dreadful was his action,  
Unworthy of my blood, he thundered out;  
But if the generous Borgia is refused;  
Think not of Gandia, but of blood and death.  Mach. 
What inauspicious Chance discovered to him  
A secret, which I thought concealed from all,  
But thee and me, and those unhappy Lovers?  Ador. 
I cannot guests; he paused a while, then sighed,  
And starting up in fury charged her rise:  
Receive, he cried, receive him as a Husband  
Whom the selected virtues of thy Sex  
Can ne'er deserve, adorn thee like a Bride,  
And meet him, though thy Treacherous heart is Mortgaged;  
Meet him at least with well dissembled Love,  
Or by my hopes, I'll wreak my anger on thee,  
With all the Torments that Italian Fury  
Could e'er invent for an Adulterous Wretch  
He cried I will, and after make thee nothing.  Mach. 
Haste thee away! charm with thy utmost skill  
The mourning Bellamira, to obey him:  
The knot once tied, Gandia will soon despair.  
Leave me to work him then: Millions to one  
But I shall make him thine.  Ador. 
But did Duke of Gandia once protest?  Mach. 
Protest! He did protest, and swear, and vow.  
Go go, and haste! for the day grows upon us. Ex. Adorna●  
His Brother too! this Duke of Gandia bleeds;  
For he is grown of late the Romans darling,  
Warmed in the very Bosom of the Pope,  
And dearer than my Borgia to his Sister,  
The famous Lucrece, who can charm her Father  
In all the heat of Excommunications,  
When he throws Bulls, like Thunderbolts about him;  
She like a Venus to his angry jove  
Moves with incestuous Fires, folds her white arm  
About his chafing Neck, stroke his black Beard,  
And smooths his furrowed Cheeks to dimpled smiles;  
The Brothers too enjoyed her. O Heaven, and Earth●  
Not the first day, after such infinite time  
That Motion had th' irregular matter rolled,  
When all the wandering Atoms hit at last  
Into this beauteous form, even when our Sires  
First mingled, was there such a loose of Nature,  
Such a triumvirate of Lawless Lovers,  
Such Rivals as outdo even Lucian's Gods!  
Ha! the Orsini here! and the Vitelli!  
They move this way in murmuring Cabals;  
Methinks Death darkens every Visage there.  
'Tis so— They are no more— Or this is true,  
Or Machiavelli knows nothing of Mankind. Ex. Mach.  Enter Orsino, Vitellozzo, Ascanio, Adrian, Enna, Ange, three Cardinals. Oliverotto, Gravina. Vitel. 
I say again, I do not like the Marriage;  
Were Bellamira mine, I'd sell her off  
For Gold, I'd merchandise her tender beauty  
With Infidels, and send her to the Turk,  
Like an Andromada, to gorge the Monster,  
Rather than to wed her to perfidious Borgia.  Orsin. 
You are too violent.  Vital. 
I think not so:  
A drowning man will grasp at any thing,  
Nay, sink his Friend that leapt among the Waves  
To give him life: but yond though in the gulf,  
Ride on to ruin, though your Friends call out.  Ang. 
Nay, though they point the Whirlpool just before you,  
That would devour us all.  Adrian. 
Besides 'tis Impious,  
Against all Right of Nature, Law of Reason,  
To act the Tyrant o'er a Daughters will.  Ascan. 
She knows the Cruelties of Caesar Borgia ●  
Has heard his Rapes and Murders! Mercy on me●  
How did he use the poor Venetian Lady?  
He forced her in a Wood, nay in a Ditch,  
As I am credibly informed by those  
That heard her squeak, in a Dry-Ditch deflowered her!  
Add yet to this, my Lords, How, when the French,  
At sacking of a Town, broke open Nunneries,  
He trussed at least 40 the pretty'st Rogubs,  
The tenderest quaking things! never broke up●  
All spotless Maids, like 〈◊〉 ne'er blown upon,  
Nor touched even with the tip of any Finger,  
And kept 'em for his Lechery.  Orsin. 
Methinks my Lord Ascanio! my Lord of Milan,  
Or my Lord Cardinal, more moderation  
Would better fit a man of your profession?  
I would not come to th● 〈◊〉 Argument,  
For than we clash: Borgia is now my Son;  
Therefore I pray once more forbear to tax him;  
The Theme is great and worthy that we mention,  
Romania's Duke and Nephew to the Pope.  Ascan. 
Prithee, old Paul: Prithee now ben't so hot:  
Good Reverend Graybeard: if you'll name his Greatness,  
Pronounce him right, even as his Holiness  
Has owned him to the World without a blush,  
His natural Son, his Nephew, or his By blow, that is,  
In short, old Paul, his down right Bastard.  Orsin. 
Without a blush: should I stand up the Champion  
Of absent Borgia, and unravel thee,  
I tell thee, Priest; thou scandal to the Altar,  
Thy Front, thy Eyes, thy Lips, each part of thee  
Would blush with Scarlet deeper than thy Robe.  Ascan. 
Peace Dotard, peace:  
I say old stuttering Paul, thou'lt ha' the worst on't:  
Therefore peace, peace Dotard.  Orsin. 
Ha!  Vitel. 
Forbear: my Lord, Remember!  Orsin. 
How dares he thus provoke me?  
Who knows, yet urges me knows in his heart  
How I have pierced into his deepest thoughts,  
Have had intelligence of all his Vices,  
Even of his closest, darkest Deeds of Lust,  
And dar'st thou call me Dotard? Saucy Churchman's  
Thou that gav'st Whores Indulgences for Sin;  
So rank, that he frequents the Common Stews;  
For a new Face would give his Scarlet Coat  
To make the Strumpet fine.  Oliv. 
My Lord, Consider where, to whom, of whom,  
And what it is you utter?  Orsin. 
Place me, some Power,  
Upon Saint Peter's Vane, the very Ball,  
And turn my Voice to Thunder, that I may  
Lay open to the World the Hellish Acts  
Of this Contagious Prelate.  Ascan. 
Spit, spit thy Venom; nay, nay, let him out with't—  
Mark how he shakes now; by my Holy-Dame  
I have nettled him: Poor Paul— I Pity the old Fool—  Orsin. 
Then Priest, let me demand thee,  
Is not the Cupping-glass that burns thy Lust,  
And draws thy rising Gall to such a Blister,  
My Daughter's scorn, and loathing of thy person?  
Ha! is't not that? I think I've stung you, Cardinal!  
Worse than the Neapolitan Pox you gave  
Our Roman Harlots—  Ascan. 
Why how now, Paul, what dost thou grow foul  
Mouthed now? by my Holidame, had I a Sword  
I'd firk thee, Orsin— I'd so whip thee, Paul,  
So flawg and scourge thee, thou shouldst eat thy words.  
The Pox! why, how now? ha! the Pox i'faith!  
The Pox to me! let me come at him— hah!  Orsin. 
Ha! wilt thou fight?  
So forward Priest! by Heaven I'll shave your Crown;  
Stand back and let me mow this Poppy off;  
This rank red Weed that spoils the Churches Corn.  Vitel. 
Did ever fury run to such a height!  
Why, my Lord Cardinal, know you this place,  
And how 'tis privileged?  Ascan. 
My Lord, I am silenced.  
An easy Man made up of patience, I!  
No Gall in me! give me thy hand, Old Paul:  
Henceforth we're Friends, and as a Friend I'll tell thee,  
Even from my Heart, I'll tell thee what I think:  
Thou art bewitched, Old Paul, besotted, fooled—  
This Son-in-Law of thine has sealed thine Eyes,  
And shortly I shall see thee walk the Streets  
With a Dog and a Bell— nay— prithee be not angry,  
For 'tis in love: I'll tell thee of a Dotage,  
And so your Servant noble Vitellazzo,  
Anga and Enna yours— Farewell, my Lord,  
And lastly thine whose Neck is in the Noose,  
Old Woodcock, Orsin. Exit Cardinal.  D. Gravin. 
I am not used to fear,  
But yet methought Ascanio's last words  
Were dreadful to my Ears.  Orsin. 
I have engag'd●  
My Daughter, Life and Honour, and all my Fortunes  
For the Duke's Faith, and the security  
Of every person here; why should we doubt him?  
Have we not seen his Labour in this matter?  
Four thousand Ducats, given us down in hand,  
With an assurance of our former pay;  
Nay more, he binds himself not to constrain  
Any one of us to appear in person  
Before him, but who pleases of himself:  
Therefore let me entreat you clear your Brains,  
Meet all this day together at the Marriage,  
And pay him, as he merits faithful homage.  Vitel. 
There's something here forebodes, in spite of  
The Music that he makes, a harsh Conclusion.  Orsin. 
For shame no more! the very fears of Children,  
Because he gives our Friends allowances,  
And honours them with Charges, Governments,  
Beyond their Qualities, we dread his Dealing,  
And swear he means to draw our Faction from us.  Vitel. 
Henceforth say what you will, do what you please,  
Since to your Interests I am linked by Fate:  
I will no more oppose your specious Reasons,  
But instantly go wait upon the Duke. Trumpets.  Orsin. 
This day to add new Honours to the Marriage,  
Our Son-in-Law, the Duke Valantinois,  
Receives the Rose before the Consistory,  
A Grace which seldom is vouchsafed to Kings;  
Indeed the greatest which the Sacred Head  
Of the whole Christian World can give to Man,  
The very highest Round of Humane Glory.  Scene draws, and shows the Consistory: Borgia come forward, with the Rose carried before him in great Pomp. His Son Seraphino led by Alonzo, Machiavelli, Attendants, Ascanio, and five Cardinals, etc. Brog. 
O Machiavelli! was ever Pomp like this?  
The Morning dawns with an unwonted Crimson;  
The Flowers more odorous seem, the Garden Birds  
Sing louder, and the laughing Sun ascends  
The gaudy Earth with an unusual brightness—  
All Nature smiles, and the whole world is pleased,  
Even all the World, but thy unhappy Borgia.  Mach. 
And why should he, who every Man concludes  
The Darling of the Times, whom bounteous Heaven  
Has Crowned with Glory in successful Wars,  
Whom it now doubly Crowns with Beauty too,  
The brightest of her Sex, why should he thwart  
The whole Worlds Vogue, and think himself unhappy●  Borg. 
Yes Machiavelli! thou worthiest of Mankind,  
To thee I'll strip my Heart, that secret Bed,  
With Vices, Virtues, every naked thought,  
And show thee all the mixture of a Man.  
We are observed— Think me not over-frail  
Because I love: were Bellamira dearer,  
Her Father bleeds, and all the Rebel-Race;  
I'll first ensnare the Fools: then preach Fate to 'em.  Mach. 
And let 'em know, just as the Cords are drawing,  
None ought to offend his Prince, and after trust him.  Borg. 
My Lord Orsino! O forgive me, Heaven!  
Who have thus grossly failed to pay the Reverence  
I owe the best of Fathers, best of Friends:  
This day, this glorious day, for ever blessed,  
And never to be lost in Times dark Legend,  
Crowns me your Son. Thus then I bend my knees  
Which are not used to kneel but at the Altar:  
And O! permit me thus to kiss your Hand,  
And pay the Eternal Vows of my Obedience.  Orsin. 
O rise, my Lord, all Duty is out done  
With but one single bare Acknowledgement;  
Yet for a satisfaction to this Company,  
Say, do you love my Daughter Bellamira?  Burg. 
Ha! what says my Father? do I live?  
O Heaven? Why do you wound me with the Question?  
Does the poor suffering Fair One Virtue love,  
Who drinks the Brook, and eats what Nature yields,  
Rather than feast in Courts with loss of Honour?  
Do those, who on the Rack for Heaven expire,  
Love Angels, and Eternal brightness there?  
'Tis sure they do: And oh— 'tis full as sure,  
That Caesar Borgia dies for Bellamira.  Orsin. 
No more; you Honour her and me too much●  
Therefore this day I give her to your Arms  
With all the pleasure of a proud old Father,  
O'erjoyed to see his Daughter matched above him:  
By Heaven, my eyes grow full; here all our Discord  
For ever end, all Jars betwixt the Orsins,  
Vitelli, and the Duke of Valentinois,  
Be buried ever in this strict Embrace.  Borg. 
Since you will have it so, forgive my Duty  
Let me grow bold, and as a Friend embrace you—  Orsin. 
See here, my Lord, for scarce can I distinguish,  
Through the bright joy that dazzles my weak sight,  
Oliverotto, and the Duke Graviana,  
When Vitellozzo come to grace your Nuptials:  
All on their knees acknowledge you their Prince.  Borg. 
My Equals all: Nor shall this Homage be,  
I swear it shall not: Rise my Lords; your Arms:  
Let me embrace you round: by all things sacred,  
I swear that none of you have been too blame.  
Were you Confederates against my Arms:  
You were: but Borgia's infinite Ambition  
Forced you against your wills to let him know,  
His headstrong Youth, like a young fiery Horse,  
Unless you kindly stop him in his speed,  
Would hurl him from some Precipice to ruin.  Orsin. 
See Vitellozzo! how he takes our Crimes  
Upon himself.  Borg. 
Behold this Child, my Sons  
I know not any thing the World calls precious,  
Which in the darkness of my heart can match him,  
But Bellamira. Take him Vitellozzo,  
Take the dear blood that trickles from my heart,  
The very strings that wind about my life,  
And let him for my part be Surety,  
As beauteous Bellamira is for yours.  Orsin. 
Farewell, my Lord: with these Attendance here  
I go to haste the Bride; and let my life  
Be answer for the little Seraphino. Ex. Orsin. Vitelli.  Ascan. 
He has her now, that delicate bit of Beauty  
Which I reserved for my own Lechery:  
He drills her from her old deluded Sire,  
Hell! and she melts; she melts into his mouth:  
But by my Holidame I'll be revenged  
On every part of him: His little Bastard,  
Because he dotes on him, shall straight be mangled—  
I'll do't I say: Yes by my Holy Dame,  
I will revenge my loss of Lechery—  
Ha! what a jerk was that? it grates my bones;  
Pray Heaven it ben't a Spice, a little Tangle  
Of the Neapolitan Itch, O my Holidame. Ex. with Cardinals.  Borg. 
Now Machiavelli, prepare to hear my Soul,  
Hear to what softness and effeminate mourning  
All my dear Victories at last are melted:  
For I will tell thee though thou'lt scarce believe,  
Since first I saw the Charming Bellamira,  
The very Image of Charlotta's scorn,  
I have not had one hour of Free repose;  
Even when at last I have resolved to join  
Our hands and trust her with my tender glory,  
I've started from my Bed, at midnight rose,  
And wander'd by the Moon: Then laid me down  
Upon some dewy bank, and slept till morn.  Mach. 
Therefore there must be some strange Circumstance  
That first induced those fears, some dangerous hint  
For your suspicions—  Borg. 
Yes Machiavel,  
There is, there is a cause for my suspicions.  Mach. 
Are you sure of it?  Borg. 
Most sure I am;  
Sure as reservedness does imply aversion:  
Yet I, as if my flames were fire in Frost,  
The more she cools, scorch, rage, and burns the more—  Mach. 
I guess your meaning; like Charlotta, she  
Has pawned her heart— but 'tis confessed you know him—  Borg. 
Ha! did I know the name of him I dread?  
What God in Arms should save him from my Sword?  
Here thou hast roused the Lion in my heart,  
Italian spite, revenge and blasting fury  
Devours my Soul! all mildness sleeps like Death:  
I boil like Drunkards Veins— Death! Hell and Vengeance!  Mach. 
Suppress this Fury—  
Come! come! my Lord— I find your are better skilled  
In Camps than Courts, and know not yet Loves World.  
She is reserved you say, when you approach her;  
Why, let her weep too: was it ever known  
A subtle Pride laughed on her Wedding Day,  
Or clasped her love in the eye o'th' world?  
I find you are unlearned! Sir— 'tis their Trade,  
The very Nature, Soul, and Life-blood of 'em—  
To whine● and cry, and turn their heads away,  
When their hearts dote on what they seem to scorn!  Borg. 
If it were so!  Mach. 
Why it was always so,  
Is so, and will be so to the world's end!  
Give me your hand, and take her on my word;  
I have been bred in Courts; sounded the humours  
Even of all Womenkind: Therefore advise you  
Repair immediately to old Orsino,  
Who with his Beauteous Daughter waits your Coming.  Borg. 
Could she be truly mine! the wings of Winds  
Would be too slow to waft me to her arms!  Mach. 
Once more I say, she is and shall be yours,  
Truly, religiously, devoutly yours—  
Why all this thought and groundless Jealousy?  
Let manly Confidence and Roman-Vertue  
Master this Gothick Fury in your blood.  Borg. 
By Arms! by all the glories I have won!  
Thou hast awaked my Love, and Charmed my fears.  
Charlotta! O the very figure of her;  
But sure the Beauteous Lines are softer here:  
And now I find 'tis ruin to forgo her—  Mach. 
No more my Lord. 'Tis I that thus embark your  
And if some starting Plank should fl●w the Vessel  
To your destruction— I am ruined too—  
Since all I have, or am, or ever would be,  
Is to be yours; your sworn, unbiased friend.  Borg. 
Thou best of men:  
Thou art my Oracle, my Heaven, my Genius,  
And, as some God, shalt guide me through the World.  
Let's go to Conquest, though through Death we go;  
Marriage and Death both new Experiments.  
Methinks I see the Taper in the Window,  
The Busy Nurse unveils the weeping Maid,  
And I must naked pass through Seas to reach her.  
O fatal Marriage! O thou dismal Gulf!  
Which like the Hellespona dost roar between  
Me and my Joys: Is there no other way?  
None, none, the Winds and the dashed Rocks reply:  
Why let 'em roar; and let the Billows swell;  
Till the racked Orbs be with the Deluge drowned.  
'Tis fixed; I'll plunge, or perish, or enjoy her—  Mach. 
Justly resolved; nor let a few false Tears  
Melt you again to an untimely mildness.  
Charlotta thus deluded you in France,  
Which rendered all your Court ridiculous:  
Remember that, and lest the like disgrace  
Should happen now, drag her if she refuses!  Borg. 
I will, my Machiavelli,— O Arms! O Glory!  
What an Eternal Rust would smear your Luster,  
Did not this Spirit of Ambition fire me!  
I'll tell her that the lives of all her race,  
Are now within my power.  Mach. 
Nay, threaten her!  Borg. 
I will do more than threaten;  
Think not the dreadful Caesar will be rows'd●  
To threaten only; that's a sleeping Borgia,  
A loving, dreaming, Conscientious Borgia;  
But when I wake there's always Execution—  Mach. 
It has been so.  Borgia. 
And shall I swear again;  
No, Machiavelli; she must be mine or die;  
Should she for refuge to the Temple fly!  
I'd after her; there, if she scorns my flame,  
To the dumb Saints I will my Vows proclaim;  
And in their view resolve the glorious game:  
Upon the Golden Shrines I'll lay her head,  
And even the Altar make my Bridal Bed— Ex. Ambo.   

ACT II.  
SCENE I.  Enter Orsino and Bellamira in Mourning. Orsino. 
WHERE didst thou get the daring thus to move me? ●  
By thy dead Mother's shroud, not the first Night,  
When in my Youthful arms I grasped her to me,  
Was I so hot with Love as now with rage,  
Thou Young and Virgin Witch, thou new-found Fury?  Bella. 
Ah, Sir! for I●am afraid to call you Father,  
Give me my Death: give to these trembling breasts  
A thousand wounds; or cut me Limb from Limb;  
But do not look so dreadfully upon me—  
Nor blast me with such sounds. Oh pity me!  
There's not one fatal sentence, one dread Word,  
But runs like Iron through my freezing blood.  
What have I done? Ah, what is my offence?  
And tell me how, which way I shall alone you?  Orsin. 
O, thou vile wretch! what is thy offence?  
Dost thou not know it? Exquisite dissembler!  
Thou leading Sorc'ress! Hecat of thy Sex!  
Subtlest of all thy kind, that ever rolled  
Their false deluding eyes, and in their Glasses  
Conjured for looks to cheat the simple world!  
But to take all evasion from thy guilt,  
Did I not charge thee, as thou fear'st my curse,  
This very Morning to adorn thyself  
As one, whom the great Duke intends to honour  
By making thee his Bride?  Bell. 
Alas! you did;  
And I am come, Oh Heaven! and all you Powers  
That pity woman's weakness, I am come  
My Lord as you commanded; and have vowed,  
Tho Death atends my Nuptials, to obey you.  Orsin. 
Thou liest even in thy heart, thou know'st thou liest,  
Thou hast maliciously, most grossly failed  
In this obedience: Say, declare, haste, Answer,  
Thou most ungrateful wretch; Ah, how unlike  
Thy meek, thy Perfect bright and blessed Mother,  
Is this a habit for a glorious Bride?  
Dost thou thus meet the generous Borgia?  
I know thy awkward Heart; thou meanest by this  
To tell the World, thou dost not like thy Husband,  
And dash him at the Altar: but by Heaven,  
Whither thou, Murderess, now art sending me,  
This shall not serve thy purpose: In this dress  
That blasts my eyes and strikes my Soul with sadness,  
I'll see the Priest for ever make you one.  Bellam. 
Ah! how have I deserved this cruel usage?  
Did ever Daughter yet obey like me?  
Not she who in the Dungeon fed her Father  
With her own Milk, and by her Piety  
Saved him from Death, can match my rigorous Virtue;  
For I have done much more: torn off my Breasts,  
My Breasts, my very Heart, and flung it from me,  
To feed the Tyrant Duty with my blood.  Orsin. 
Call'st thou the lawful Imposition of  
A careful Father, that intends thee honour,  
Tyrannical and bloody? Rage resume me;  
Here, seest thou this? O would the gallant Borgia  
Could fling thee from his Soul, as I from mine,  
For 'tis respect to him that saves thy life;  
Else by the Fever that quite burns me up,  
I'd poniard thee, till all thy Robes were Crimson:  
Yet since thou hast the Impudence to brave me,  
And call thy Father Tyrant to his face,  
I that have fostered thee even from the Womb,  
And bred thee in my Bosom, hear and tremble;  
For I will curse thee till thy frighted Soul  
Runs mad with horror, till thy Mother starts  
From her cold Monument, to beg me cease,  
Though all in vain.  Bullam. 
I cast me at your feet;  
I'm all Obedience: See, Sir,— see me here  
Grovelling upon the Earth.  Orsin. 
Cursed be the Night,  
Ten thousand Curses on that fatal hour,  
When my great Spirit trifled with thy Mother  
For the Production of so false a Joy!  Bellam. 
O horrid blasting breath!  Orsin. 
When I am dead,  
My troubled Ghost shall nightly haunt thy Dream●.  Bellam. 
Ah, hold— I kiss your feet, and hug your knees.  Orsin. 
Though in thy Husband's Arms, I'll draw the Curtains●  
And stare thee into Frenzy; and thy Lord  
I'll Charm so fast, thy shrieks shall not awake him.  Bellam. 
Yet Sir, forbear; tread on me, trample me.  Orsin. 
And all the day, when other Spirits sleep,  
I'll follow thee with groans, and curse thee still:  
Nay, when thou seek'st for company to scape me,  
I'll make thee scream. See there his Spirit stands.  Bellam. 
Hear him not Heaven!  Orsin. 
After thy first embrace,  
May thy Lord loathe thee; swear thou art no Virgin,  
And cast thee off as a most lewd Adulteress.  Bellam. 
If there be Saints or Angels: Oh I charge you—  Orsin. 
Or if thy Husband should by chance retain thee,  
Heartburning, Jealousies incite him still  
To plague thee with a Thousand Hells on Earth,  
And after end thee in some horrid manner.  Bellam. 
Poniard me as you promised Sir! Oh stab me!  Orsin. 
Eternal Barrenness shut up thy Womb;  
If aught that's humane chance to raise thy hopes,  
May it be monstrous at the cursed Production,  
An after birth, or some abhorred Conception.  Enter Duke of Gandia in Mourning. Bellam. 
You've said enough! my heart, my spirits fail me,  
And I have now my wish without a Dagger.  Orsin. 
What now? another Mourner? Hell and Furies!  
They both have plotted to undo my Honour.  
Well— Duke of Gandia— but I'll call the Bridegroom.  Gand. 
Ha! how's this? the beauteous Bellamira  
Upon the Earth. Help, help— my Lord, she's cold,  
Your Daughter Swoons.—  Orsin. 
I care not, let her perish;  
And thou, who hast seduced her, perish with her:  
Swoon with her, sink with her: Die both, and both be damned.  Ex. Orsino. Gand. 
Wake Bellamira from this sleep of Death:  
Life of Palante's life! give me a word;  
See thou art safe, clasped in thy Gandia's Arms,  
Palante holds thee. Say, what Murderer  
Offered this cruelty, and I'll revenge thee!  Bellam. 
Where am I? ha! loose, lose me from your arms;  
Stand off; fly from me; fly, Palante, fly!  
For we must never, never meet again:  
The Poles may sooner join: O I am lost,  
By an inexorable Father ruined;  
Cursed, blasted; and for thee, unhappy Prince,  
Thou hast undone me, though not by thy will;  
For sure thou lov'st the wretched Bellamira:  
Yet by the consequence of this affection,  
Thou hast destroyed my peace of mind for ever:  
Thou hast been ruinous and mortal to me!  
As Robbers, Ravishers, or Murderers!  
Therefore be gone! fly from my Eyes for ever,  
And never let me see Palante more.  Gand. 
I go for ever from you, as you charge me,  
And for that purpose I did hither come;  
But little thought that you would drive me thus:  
I hoped at least, that when I parted from you,  
And bid you everlastingly farewell,  
I hoped; but oh those flattering hopes were vain!  
That gentle Bellamira should have sighed  
Or dropped a tear, when I would take my leave  
And never see her more.  Bellam. 
O Cruelty!  
You rend the Plaster from the bleeding wound.  Gand. 
An Elder Brother calls you to his Bed,  
And you perhaps will not be ravish'd thither:  
O Bellamira! I had once those Vows  
Which thy frail heart does now resign to Borgia.  
But I have stayed too long: Farewel for ever;  
When I am gone, and thou for many years  
Enjoyest the Change thy Father forced thee to,  
(For sure I cannot think it all thy doing!)  
If happy Caesar Borgia chance to fold thee  
More closely in his arms then was his Custom;  
Say to thy heart with a relenting thought,  
Thus, if your Fates had pleased, the wretched Gandia  
Would thus have loved me. But no more farewell.  
You're pleased to banish me— and— I'll obey. Exiturus.  Bell. 
Come back! come back! you shall not leave me thus:  
Let Father's Curse, and Jealous Husband's Rage,  
Love has a force that can surmount the World.  Enter Borgia. 
If then 'tis destined that you must be gone,  
And leave me to the Arms of Cruel Borgia—  Borg. 
Ha! but observe: there may be more in this.  Bell. 
If we two Lovers, whom for tenderness  
The World can never match, must part for ever—  Gand. 
O, that for ever!  Borg. 
It's Apparition all;  
By Heaven, a Dream; I swear, a very Dream.  Bell. 
Yet take, O take this dying farewell with thee:  
And whomsoever thy Passion shall Espouse,  
Remember! O Remember this, and leave me:  
No Man was ever so by Woman loved,  
As thou Palante art by Bellamira.  Gand. 
Stop there; for to go on will give me Death.  
O! thou hast uttered Sounds of such a strain  
As Nature cannot bear: like utmost Music,  
Which while it charms the Sense, makes i'll the Blood.  
No more! for by my glimmering joys, I fear  
Thou'lt sing my soul to Everlasting Sleep!  Borg. 
Then let me wake you,  Bell. 
O heavens'! we are undone!  Borg. 
Start not, nor weep not! beauteous Bellamira!  
For there is nothing toward you, but well;  
Fortune herself now smiles on your design,  
And Heaven and Earth conspire to make you happy:  
These Mourning Habits on your Wedding Day,  
Had chance not guided me to hear your Loves,  
Would have betrayed the secret—  Gand. 
O Brother! what must I expect? I know not  
Whether I ought to hope or fear.  Borg. 
Hope all:  
For cursed is he that parts whom Heaven has joined:  
I stand convinced that Love has made you one;  
And may those Chaster Fires that warm your hearts,  
Vie with the Stars for Immortality—  Gand. 
Speak it again, again confirm this goodness,  
For one so Noble sure this World contains not:  
O! 'tis too little but to name him Noble,  
For such a Soul aspires above the Clouds,  
So great, Ethereal, and so Godlike framed,  
He must look down on Kings; such vast compassion,  
Such an unheard magnificence of Mercy  
As we must both adore: Kneel, Bellamira,  
For 'tis a God we talk with.  Borg. 
O you must not.  
Methinks fair Bellamira, who still answers  
With the accustomed Language of her Tears,  
Methinks you should have told me all this while,  
Your Beauties were not doomed for Caesar Borgia.  
'Tis true, I often feared by your reservedness,  
Your Heart must be engaged— Or thou, Palente,  
Hadst thou but told me when I wooed her first,  
How many sighs and sorrows hadst thou saved me!  
I would not then have launched, but yielded up  
The Noble Fraight, this more than Indian Treasure,  
And given thee all my interest in her Father.  Gand. 
Alas! I feared!  Borg. 
I hold you Sir excused:  
May you be happy as your Souls can wish;  
But I must beg you from this place retire  
For your own interest; Orsino here  
Entreated me to wait him, and 'tis now  
Upon this day, allotted for my Marriage,  
Unfit to break the business of your Loves.  
Yet doubt not, O most happy lovely Pair,  
But Care and Time shall perfect all your Wishes.  Gand. 
Give me your Arms: I had designed this Morning●  
Made desperate with my griefs, t'acquaint your Ear  
With all the progress of my ruined passion:  
I thought that you would storm, and use me ill,  
And had designed I know not what to forfeit  
My life, rather than lose my Bellamira:  
But you have so prevented me—  Borg. 
No more.  
How, fairest Bellamira! not one word?  
Am I ordained the Proxy of your Love,  
Without the Breath of thanks?  Bell. 
The bounteous heavens'  
Rain on your head whole Deluges of mercies,  
For this great goodness! Hear me, oh ye Powers,  
Hear me upon my knees; where'er he goes,  
Guard him with blessings! give him his own wishes:  
If to the Wars he pass, Renown attend him,  
And growing Conquest dwell upon his Arms;  
Let him attain by a long course of Valour,  
And gallant acts, to the old Roman Greatness;  
And when at last in Triumph he returns,  
May all the sighing Virgins strew his way,  
And with new Garlands Crown his coming Glory. Ex. with Gandia.  Enter Machiavelli. Mach. 
Something's discovered, and I guests the business!  
My Lord, you're wanted, and the beauteous Bride.  Borg. 
I charge thee name her not upon thy life.  
Here, tear, tear off these unbecoming Garments,  
Get me my Horse, and bid my Arms be ready;  
Yes, Machiavelli, with to morrows down,  
Thou shalt behold me in another Dress,  
Breathing Defiance to these softer Wars.  Mach. 
But why, Sir! why? how comes this sudden change?  
Why have you charged me that I should not speak  
Of Bellamira?  Borg. 
Cruel Machiavelli!  
Why dost thou bring the fatal Charmer back,  
Whom I would drive for ever from my Soul?  Mach. 
This wondrous alteration of your humour,  
Must sure arise from some as wondrous cause.  
Have you discovered aught?  Borg. 
All, all's discovered;  
And such an over sight in thee● but where,  
Where now is thy profound Sagacity?  
Where all thy Depositions, Promises,  
Warrants, engagements that she should be mine;  
Chastely, religiously, devoutly mine?  Math. 
And is she not?  Borg. 
By Heaven quite opposite:  
All that my boding heart presaged to thee  
Before, ha● happened; happened in such manner,  
As quite out went my own Imagination.  Mach. 
Who e'er he is that has supplanted you,  
By your just rage he was a secret Villain,  
The closest Traitor that e'er plotted mischief,  
And justly has deserved the stab you gave him●  Borg. 
How, Machiavelli? ha, didst thou talk of stabbing?  Mach. 
I neither think, nor know what's your intention,  
But that's your Country's Custom in such cases:  
Besides, Sir, when I did discourse you last,  
You fell into Convulsions of Despair,  
With mentioning the very name of Rival,  
And thundered out whole Volleys of revenge.  Borg. 
True Machiavelli: but could not think my Rival  
Should prove my Brother.  Mach. 
Ha!  Borg. 
Raise, raise me Heaven,  
Some other Man that dares to take her from me,  
To snatch the only Beauty I can love,  
And at the Altar too, from my embraces;  
If I not end him, though he were Imperial,  
Even in the middle of his Guards—  Mach 
Your Brother!  
And have you Confirmation that she loves him?  Borg. 
Why dost thou wonder? I both saw and heard;  
Heard all his Vows, and her most passionate Answers:  
She loves him: Yes, these cursed Remembrancers,  
These eyes have seen it. O! she dotes on him,  
Feeds on his looks— eyes him, as pregnant Women  
Gaze at the precious thing their Souls are set on.  Mach. 
And you perhaps will bear it from a Brother  
With all the meekness of an Anchorite,  
A man of quite another Worlds you'd best  
Go to the Wars, be shot, and leave this Brother  
The Heir of all, sole Darling of the Pope.  Borg. 
'Tis certain, that I seemed to all appearance  
Mild and relenting; begg'd 'em leave me here,  
That I might think—  Mach. 
Think! by your Holy Father,  
You have no blood, no soul, nor spirit left!  
The Genius of your House must blush at this;  
A Brother! why, so much the more a Villain.  Borg. 
O Machiavelli!  Mach. 
O Conscientious Borgia!  
By all that's great, it is in him flat Incest;  
There's for your Conscience, if you will have Conscience,  
She was betrothed yours by her Father's Will,  
Published to the World, and what else makes a Marriage?  
And for a Brother thus to undermine you,  
And carry it too? Are you Italian born?  
Begot by one? O, make it not a doubt,  
I grieve, I groan, I am mad to see you thus!  
What, to be made the talk, the jeer of Rome,  
As once you were at Paris by Charlotta:  
No— I'll revenge thee! cold as thou art and dead!  
And may this Steel be sheathed in Machiavelli,  
If that the treacherous Duke of Gandia scape me. Exiturns.  Borg. 
Come back, I say; for what is to be done,  
I'll act myself. Where was I? or where am I?  
No Machiavelli, thou know'st 'tis not my Conscience  
That lets the Villain live: I think thou hast heard  
The fatal Jars we've had about my Sister:  
For I remember, being in her Bath,  
And by her Women told we were at words,  
She ran in haste half naked to the Pope,  
Who came to part the fray; and swore in fury,  
With horrid Imprecations, whoe're sell  
By other'sothers hand, he never would have mercy  
On the Survivor. This, my Machiavelli,  
Is Borgia's Conscience— For to do a murder,  
And not be safe, is Drunkard's policy.  Mach. 
What then is your intent?  Borg. 
To follow Nature:  
For so do Flames that burn, and Seas that drown;  
Yes, Machiavelli, and care not what comes on't:  
So when security, and black occasion  
Point me to death, I will be rough as those,  
And blood him, till he changes to a Ghost:  
Yet since my Father's threats bar present murder,  
I'll find a way to rack him.  Mach. 
Ha! you mean—  
To take again your beauteous Prize; that is,  
The lovely Bellamira still retains  
Some holds about your heart.  Borg. 
O, 'tis confessed;  
And howsoe'er my Tongue has played the Braggart,  
She Reigns more fully in my Soul than ever:  
She Garrisons my Breast, and Man's against me  
Even my own Rebel thoughts, with thousand Graces,  
Ten thousand Charms, and new discovered Beauties.  
O! hadst thou seen her when she lately blessed me,  
What tears, what looks, and languish she darted;  
Love bath'd himself in the distilling Balm:  
And oh the subtle God has made his entrance  
Quite through my heart; he shouts and triumphs too,  
And all his Cry is Death, or Bellamira.  Mach. 
Why! this is like the Spirit of your Father,  
You bring his graceful vigour just before me,  
Just, just as first he wore the triple Crown,  
Just so he walked, just with that fiery Movement;  
So sparkled too his eyes! so glowed his Cheeks.  
Nor fear Palente, when she's in your Arms,  
When she perceives the fervour of your passion  
Panting upon her naked Breasts for Mercy.  Borg. 
Sighing, as if my very Soul would burst;  
And gasping, Machiavelli, as if Death's pangs were on me.  Mach. 
Now stealing to her Lips, dissolved in Tears,  
And pressing close, but softly to her side;  
Whispering, O why, why, gentle Bellamira!  
Then with a sudden start let lose your love;  
Grasp her as if you could no longer bear it;  
Clasp her all Night, and stifle her with Kisses:  
O, there are Thousand ways!  Borg. 
Ten Thousand Thousand;  
Millions, and infinite, yet add to those,  
I'll try 'em all; nor shall a drop of mercy  
Fall from my Eyes, though I beheld Palante  
Dead at her Door. O expectation burns me!  
O Bellamira! heart! how she does inflame me?  Mach. 
Then there's no need of warlike preparations?  Borg. 
Talk no more of War, for now my Theme's all Love:  
The War like Winter vanishes; 'tis gone,  
And Bellamira with eternal Spring,  
Dressed in blue Heavens, and breathing Vernal Sweets,  
Drops like a Cherubin in smiles before me.  Mach. 
Oh, that the World could but behold you thus!  
That Bellamira saw you in this height  
Of dazzling Passion, and becoming Fury!  Borg. 
Thus, to a glorious Coast, through Tempests hurled,  
We sail like him who sought the Indian World.  
'Tis more; 'tis Paradise I go to prove,  
And Bellamira is the Land of Love:  
I have her in my view; and hark, she talks,  
And see, about, like the first Maid she walks:  
Fair as the Day when first the World began;  
And I am doomed to be the happy man. Exeunt.   

ACT III.  
SCENE I.  Enter Ascanio and Alonzo. Alonz. 
MY Lord, this is an Act so newly horrid,  
So ghastly a contrivance of Revenge,  
That Fiends themselves would start at the Proposal.  
I to do this; I, who have bred him up!  
Oh Seraphino ● Nursed thee in my Bosom,  
To gash thy Cheeks, and tear out both thy Eyes!  Ascan. 
The sums of Gold are ordered to be paid;  
Half on your bare consent: on Execution  
The whole. Alonzo! thou hast no compassion  
When Interest comes in play: Don't I know,  
At the Command of Machiavelli, or Borgia,  
Thou wouldst not stick to poison even the Pope?  
Come, come, dissemble not thy Occupation,  
Murder's thy Trade, and Death thy Livelihood;  
Therefore perform this act of sprightly Vengeance,  
And I'll Create thee Noble—  Alonz. 
'Tis sure, e'er long, when I have served their turn,  
They will end me too, for fear of talking;  
Therefore, my Lord, however my Conscience stings me,  
For 'tis most true, I love the Innocent Boy;  
Send home the Gold—  Ascan. 
Thou shalt along with me;  
I will not send, but pay it thee in hand,  
Full Twenty Thousand Crowns— Why, what a sum is that?  
Full Twenty Thousand Crowns!  
Why, I will tell thee, there are Rogues in Orders,  
Monks, Friars, Jesuits, that would kill their Fathers,  
Ravish their Mothers, eat their Brothers and Sisters,  
For half the sum: what, twenty thousand Crowns!  
Away, away! Come, come, pull out his eyes,  
And make a Cupid of the little Bastard.  
I swear thou shalt; what, twenty thousand Crowns!  Alonz. 
My Lord, I am Charmed.  Enter Machiavelli and Adorna. Ascan. 
My good Lord Machiavelli.  Mach. 
My Noble Lord,  
The humblest of your Servants.— Ex.  
Now, my Adorna, now the time is coming,  
When thou shalt Rival even the Queen of Love;  
For, by my life, a Bridegroom like Palante  
Might match an Empress— But he's thine; no more.  
I've sworn he's thine: This day, that gives his Brother  
Thy beauteous Cousin, is the Blessed Fore-rnnner  
Of my Adorna's certain happiness.  Ador. 
Heaven only knows the issue of my Fate;  
But did not love and languishing desire  
Transport me from myself, I should endeavour  
To help the poor despairing Bellamira.  
Not many hours ago she ran upon me  
With Ecstasies, even crying out for joy,  
In spite of Fate, Palante shall be mine;  
Then told me all that you discourst but now:  
When on that minute cruel Borgia entered  
With old Orsino, who commanded her,  
th'th 'mid'st of prayers and tears, and shrinking sorrows,  
Strait to attend her Husband to the Temple.  Mach. 
Excellent! And how bears Palante this?  Adorn. 
So much the worse, because quite unexpected  
And while I told it in most moving terms,  
He struck his Breast, and cast his eyes to Heaven,  
Enquired for you; then ●alk● of blood, and vanished.  Mach. 
I have been ever since I came to Rome  
A Confident to both: I like the Method,  
The Machine moves exactly to my mind,  
Sails like a Ship well ballast through the Air,  
And ploughs the rising mischiefs clear before me.  
I've heard thee often talk of pretty Letters  
That past between Palante and thy Cousin.  Ador. 
I have 'em all in keeping, by her order.  Mach. 
Let me peruse 'em.  Adorn. 
Will you be secret then?  Mach. 
Away, and fear not, they shall make thy Fortune:  
Soon as the Marriage Rites are past, we'll meet. Ex. Adorna.  
But lo, they come! The Duke of Gandia frowns;  
I fear my Caesar, and must watch their clashing.  Scene draws, and discovers the Progress of a stately Marriage; Ascanio, Adrian, Enna, Cardinals, going before, Orsino following: Bellamira supported by two Virgins in White: Borgia followed by Vitellozzo, Alonzo, etc. Gand. 
Sir, I must speak with you.  Borg. 
'Tis inconvenient.  Gand. 
'Tis not our first of Jars. Remember Lucrece,  
Our Sister Lucrece, and be then persuaded  
Necessity requires yourea  Borg. 
For what?  Gand. 
if you dare walk aside with me, I'll tell you.  Borg. 
After the Priest.—  Gand. 
No Sir— before the Priest—  
Fate hovers near us; you shall give me hearing.  Borg. 
What Boy! how sayst thou; shall!—  Gand. 
Yes Sir, you shall.  Borg. 
No more; for fear we should be overheard:  
I'll instantly return upon my Honour:  
Let me but wait Orsino to the Gate,  
And I'll attend thee; on my word I will—  
The Priest shall wait till thou have satisfaction.  Ex. all but Mach. and Gand. Mach. 
What have you said, my Lord?  Gand. 
Forebear to know;  
I think thou lov'st me, yet a proof were well;  
And since occasion now demands a trial,  
Refuse not what my Friendship shall enjoin thee.  Mach. 
'Tis granted, though the consequence be death.  Gand. 
begone, This moment leave me to myself,  Mach. 
I apprehend: Let me embrace you.  
Why shall I leave you? but my word's engaged;  
Call all those powerful provocations up●  
Your wrongs, your most ignoble injuries,  
To steel your arm, and die your Victory  
In blood: I go— because you grow impatient.  
No more, but Conquest, Death, or Bellamira—  
Yet I must watch you hereabouts: For Borgia,  
Though skilled and gallant, yet may meet his Death,  
And that I must prevent, for I'll allow no stroke  
To Chance, though my undaunted Hero dares all  
That Man can dare— Ex. Mach.  Gand. 
Why comes he not?  
I know he's brave, Renowned in Foreign Wars,  
And to his skill in Arms has such a Courage,  
As makes a rash man run upon his ruin:  
Yet in his height of fury I can dare him,  
My blood defies him mortally to death.  
Yes Machiavelli, I'll take thy fatal counsel;  
The word is Conquest, Death, or Bellamira.  Enter Borgia. Borg. 
So Sir, you see I have obeyed your Summons;  
You must be satisfied, though Beauty stays,  
Though the Bride stays, though Bellamira stays:  
That is, though Heaven with all its waiting glories  
Stops at your call, and stands to give you hearing.  Gand. 
You've used me basely.  Borg. 
No.  Gand. 
I say you have,  
Without a provocation.  Borg. 
That were base  
Indeed: when unprovoked I do a wrong,  
May I, when justly urged, want due revenge.  Gand. 
You've falsified your word, betrayed me basely,  
Betrayed a Brother: O my Stars, a Brother!  
That would have burst through all the bars of death,  
And yielded all things to you, but his Love.  
O, foolish eyes! but these are your last tears,  
And I must mend your course with blood.  Borg. 
He weeps!  
Was ever seen Hypocrisy like this? Aside.  
O thou young impudent and blooming liar,  
Who, like our Courtesans. are early practised,  
And in their Nonage taught the Arts of Vice.  
But I forgo my temper— Is this all?  
You know I am in haste, and cannot brook  
A longer Conference.  Gand. 
I know you cannot,  
But I shall force you: yes, thou Tyrant Brother,  
Thou that art fallen from all the height of glory,  
To the low practice of the worst of Slaves,  
I will revenge the honour thou hast lost:  
Nor shalt thou pass to Bellamira's Arms,  
Till through my heart thou cuttest thy horrid way.  
Draw then—  Borg. 
I will not.  Gand. 
By Revenge and Fury  
Thou shalt not pass but on my Rapier's point.  Borg. 
Think not, thou young Practitioner in Arms,  
That all thy force, thou leveled at me naked,  
Should stop me, if I once resolved my way:  
But I am calm; and wish thee, for thy safety,  
To let me pass. Thou talk'st awhile ago  
Of Lucrece— but no more of that— my Father,  
O, feared I not his Thunder which so oft  
Has menaced me if e'er I rose against thee,  
Long, long ere this, hadst thou been dust; even now  
For that abuse which late thou gav'st my ear,  
For that abhorred Conception of my Sister,  
For that damned mention, by the lowest Hell,  
And by the burning Friends, thou shouldst be Ashes.  Gand. 
Blush not, nor purse thy threatning Brow, but draw  
And dare not to despise the weakest arm;  
That trickles with Justice. Yes, upon thy breast  
Elate, and haughty as thou carriest it,  
I doubt not but my Sword shall write thee Traitor.  Borg. 
No more: O that I had  
Some one Renowned, and wintered as myself,  
T' encounter like an Oak the rooting Storm!  
But thou art weak, and to the Earth wilt bend,  
With my least blast thy Head of Blossoms down:  
If by thy hand I fall (as who e'er dived  
So deep in Fate, but sometimes was deceived?)  
I do bequeath thee more than all my Dukedoms,  
Far more indeed than Worlds, my beauteous Bride;  
But if I conquer thee, and show thee mercy,  
Never love more; nor after I am married,  
Dare for thy Soul to speak of Bellamira.  Gand. 
I thank thee, and accept the terms with Joy,  
Which blood must ratifie● And here I swear,  
If vanquished by thy Arm (though Death, I hope,  
Will, more than Oath, confirm the fatal bargain)  
For ever to renounce all Claim, and yield  
By my Eternal absence Bellamira.  Borg. 
Come on then: And let Love and Glory steel  
Thy unfleshed arm: think on this moment hangs  
Thy whole life's Joy, or worse than Death, Despair;  
I would not win such Beauty without Blood:  
But as the brave Gonsalvo, being shot,  
Moved not at all, nor changed his mighty Look;  
As if the Gallantry of such demeanour  
Could charm coy Victory to raise the Siege:  
So would I with my blood distilling down,  
Answering her tears, lead Bellamira on,  
And woo her at the Altar with my wounds.  Gand. 
No more.  Borg. 
Agreed. The word is Bellamira.— Fight, Gandia is wounded.  
Hold, hold Palante, for thou bleedst.  Gand. 
A scratch.  Borg. 
My Father cries out, save him on thy life. Fight again.  Gand. 
Guard well thy life. Borgia is wounded on the Arm, but disarms Gandia.  Enter Machiavelli. Mach. 
What means this noise of Arms?  
Why these Swords drawn? what now, my Lords,  
Both wounded? Borgia throws Gandia his Sword,  
By Heaven, I swear, you shall proceed no further.  Borg. 
'Tis now too late to tell thee how we quarrelled,  
Look to his wound: soon as the Cures performed,  
I'll serve the Duke of Gandia with my Fortune,  
But far from Rome; for he has agreed  
Never to see my Bellamira more.  
For me— I'll to the Temple.  Mach. 
My Lord, you bleed.  Borg. 
The Skin's but razed:  
Would it were deep in the most mortal part,  
So Bellamira, when the blood gushed forth,  
Would sink upon my breast, and swear she loved me.  
But that's too much to hope; what e'er is doomed,  
I swear this night to grasp the conquered Prize:  
Yes, yes, Palante, hear, and fly for ever;  
All the white World of Bellamira's Beauty  
This Night I'll travel o'er, to feast my Love;  
The Little Glutton shall be gorged with Revels,  
He shall be drunk with spirits of delight;  
With all that amorous wishes can inspire,  
And all the Liberties of loose desire. Exit.  Gand. 
I'll after him, and at the Altar end him.  
Was't not enough to wound and vanquish me,  
But he must triumph too? I rave and talk  
I know not what; for he is generous,  
And nobly merits what his valour won:  
Yes, happy Borgia, I will keep my word;  
And, since thus lost to all that I held dear,  
Abandon this loathed World.  Mach. 
You must retire.  Gand. 
I will devote the sad remains of life  
To the blessed Company of holy men!  
Learn Contemplation, and the dregs of life  
Purged off, taste clearer and more sprightly joys,  
Partake their transports in the brightest Visions,  
See opening heavens', and the descending Gods:  
Then as I view the dazzling tracks of Angels,  
Sigh to my heart, and cry, see there, and there,  
In full perfection thousand Bellamira's.  Mach. 
My Lord, your wound bleeds fast.  Gand. 
O Machiavelli!  
When I am shut for ever from the World,  
Thou tenderest hearted, gentlest, best of Friends,  
Wilt visit me sometimes: I know thou wilt.  Mach. 
Why do you droop thus? lean upon my Arm:  
All shall be well. Yes, I will find a way,  
In spite of Fortune, yet to heal your sorrows,  
And pour the Balm of Bellamira's tears  
Upon your wound.  Gand. 
Could I but see her once  
Before I die!  Mach. 
Once, Twice, a Hundred times;  
Doubt not, you shall; but haste to your Apartment. Ex. Gandia.  
Methinks if mischief had but this to vaunt,  
That, like a God, none knows her but herself,  
It were enough to mount her o'er the World.  
I love myself; and for myself, I love  
Borgia my Prince: Who does not love himself?  
Self-love's the Universal Beam of Nature,  
The Axletree that darts through all its Frame:  
And he's a Child in thought, who fears the sting  
Of Conscience; and will rather lose himself,  
Than make his Fortune by another's ruin!  
Conscience, the Bug-bears roar, the Nurses howl,  
Our Infant lash and whip of Education.  Enter Adorna● 
My Genius, my Love, my little Angel,  
Hast thou the Letters?  Adorn. 
First, my Lord,  
If I have breath to utter, let me tell you,  
Never was Marriage solemnised like this.  Mach. 
Go on.  Adorn. 
The Bride in Mourning Robes was led,  
Or rather born like a pale Course along;  
I saw her when she first approached the Temple,  
How, rushing from the arms of those that held her,  
She threw her Body on the Marble steps,  
When straight the Bridegroom with a kindled Face  
Draw near, and blushing, stretched his bloody Arm,  
Wrapped in a Scarf, and gave it to the Bride!  
Then, bowing, wished the Priest perform his Duty.  Mach. 
What followed?  Adorn. 
Urged, or rather bribed before,  
The Priest, at Old Orsino's Intercession,  
Soon joined their Hands: all from the Temple haste,  
Orsino and his Son in deep Discourse,  
And Bellamira blind with weeping, led  
This way.  Mach. 
I am glad on't, for I wait to speak with her.  
Prithee produce the Letters: Come, I know  
Thou hast 'em: nay, 'tis thy own interest.  Adorn. 
See Bellamira enters: stay some time,  
And I'll discover to your own desire.  Enter Bellamira. Mach. 
Madam, I would entreat a word in private.  Bell. 
Can misery, like mine, be worth discourse?  Mach. 
The dead are only happy, and the dying:  
The dead are still, and lasting slumbers hold 'em;  
He, who is near his Death, but turns about,  
Shuffles a while to make his Pillow easy,  
Then slips into his Shroud, and rests for ever.  Bella. 
My Mind presages, by the bloody hand  
That seized me at the Altar.—  Mach. 
In their Nonage  
A Sympathy unusual joined their loves;  
They paired like Turtles, still together drank,  
Together eat, nor quarrelled for the choice:  
Like Twining-streams both from one Fountain fell,  
And as they ran, still mingled smiles and tears:  
But oh, when Time had swelled their Currents high,  
This boundless World, this Ocean did divide 'em,  
And now for ever they have lost each other.  Bella. 
For ever! Oh the horror that invades me!  
Thou seem'st to imitate some horrid act:  
I charge thee speak, how fares the Duke of Gandia?  
Not answer me! why dost thou shake thy Head,  
And cross thy arms, and turn thy eyes away?  
Has there been aught betwixt my Lord and him?  Mach. 
There has, they fought.  Bella. 
The Cause, the Cursed Cause  
Stands here, before thy eyes she stands to blast thee:  
I know 'tis thus; Borgia for me was wounded;  
And, oh my fears! by his relentless hands  
Perhaps that poor despairing lost Palante  
Is miserably slain: If it be so,  
Spite of my Father, I'll renounce my Vows,  
Forgo, forswear all comforts in this life,  
And fly the World.  Mach. 
Would I were out on't;  
Nothing but fraud and cruelties reign here.  
He is not slain: but, as his Surgeons bode,  
I fear him much. Oh would you be so kind  
To see the Wounds he suffers for your sake,  
And charm his pains but with one parting view  
Before your Lord return.—  Bella. 
Alas! I dare not!  Mach. 
He grasped me by the wrist, and weeping, vowed  
'Twould be a Heaven, a Lightning in his Grave,  
Where else he must for ever lie unpitied.  
Now, on my Soul, you must, you ought to see him,  
Who balancing the Scales of doubtful life,  
Lies in your way: a glance, one grain of favour  
Turns him from Death. Come, come, you must have mercy:  
Madam, I'll wait and intercept your Lord.  Bella. 
A Visit! just upon our Marriage too—  
But 'tis the last that he shall e'er receive;  
Therefore I'll go; Nature, Compassion, Fate;  
And Love, far more tyrannical than those,  
Forces me on: I feel him here; he throbs,  
And beats a Mournful March.  Mach. 
Fear not, away:  
I'll guard the passage: look not back, but haste. Ex. Bellamira.  
If I remember story well, old Rome  
Was free from all this weakness of the mind;  
For Women! oh how slightly were they thought of,  
When the great Cato gave his Friend his Wife,  
To breed him his Heirs, because she was a Teemer  
And after he was dead, again received her.  
This was before the Vandals made us Slaves,  
Who mingling with our Wives, begot a Race  
That nothing holds of the old Lion, Glory.  Enter Borgia. 
But hush, more work, and now I am composed.  Borg. 
Welcome, my best of Friends, my Machiavelli!  
Let me unlade on thee my fraught of joy;  
For Bellamira's mine, her Vows are mine;  
Her Father gave her, and the Holy man  
Has linked our Hands: Fortune perhaps, e'er long,  
May join our hearts: However, dearly bought,  
I say, she's mine.  Mach. 
However, dearly bought!  Borg. 
True Machiavelli, most dearly; but alas,  
He that would reach the Mine, must burst the Quarry,  
And labour to the Centre— Ha— thou'rt could;  
Start from this Lethargy, and tell me why,  
Why dost thou shake my joys with that stern look?  
Speak, for to me thy Face is as the heavens',  
And, when thou smil'st, I cannot fear a Storm:  
But now thy gathered brows prognosticate  
Ill weather: Lightning sparkles from thy Eyes  
Speak too, though thunder follow.  Mach. 
On what conditions had the Prince his life?  Borg. 
It was agreed betwixt us solemnly,  
And bound by Oath, that he was subdued  
Should never speak to Bellamira more.  Mach. 
I am satisfied.—  Borg. 
O Machiavelli! is this friendly,  
To hide the Cause of thy disorder from me?  
Thou saidst, I am satisfied; but at that moment  
I saw two furies leap from thy red Eyes,  
That said thou'rt not, thou art not satisfied.  
This coldness of thy Carriage! this dead stillness  
Makes me more apprehend than all the noise  
That madmen raise: Speak then, but do not blast me,  
Speak by degrees, let the Truth break away  
In oblique sounds; for if it come directly,  
I fall at once, split, ruined, dashed for ever,  
So little am I Master of my Passion.  Mach. 
Therefore I dare not tell you.  Borg. 
Therefore 'tis horrid, ah!  
Monstrous! 'tis so; therefore thou dar'st not tell me:  
But speak; though trembling thus from head to foot,  
I will be calm, press down the rising sighs,  
And stifle all the swellings in my heart:  
I will be Master far as Nature can.  Mach. 
If that you knew such Fire was in your temper,  
And thus would burn you up, why would you marry?  Borg. 
Because resistless Love! resistless Beauty  
Hurried me on. But speak, thou stayest me off.  
If thou hast Sense of Honour, tell me Machiavelli!  
Speak, I conjure thee, as thou ar● my Friend.  Mach. 
The fault's not great, and you may pardon it;  
Yet 'twas a fault, I think: where did you leave  
Your Bride?  Borg. 
Why dost thou ask? I know not where:  
This way they led her; and as I perswaded`  
Orsino, though unwilling, judged it fit  
She should retire again to her Apartment,  
That her full griefs might have a time to waste.  Mach. 
She is retired, my Lord.  Borg. 
Ha! whither? speak:  
She is retired where she should not retire!  
'Tis true, most plain, most undeniable,  
I know it by the fashion of thy Wit,  
Thy accent swears it; mouth thy Tale no more,  
But say distinctly whither she's retired:  
I charge thee, pray thee, and conjure thee, speak,  
For what, with whom, and on what new occasion?  Mach. 
you have a Brother.  Borg. 
O the prejured Traitor!  
I have! what then?  Mach. 
She's with him now.  Borg. 
With whom?  Mach. 
Why with the Duke of Gandia; with your Brother  
Palente, Son, or Nephew to the Pope.  Borg. 
What Bellamira with him? Poniards! Daggers!  Mach. 
This way, but now, I saw her come in haste;  
Whether she gussed the matter by your Wound,  
I know not, but with faltering speech she asked  
How fared Palante, if he were in being?  
Whereon I nothing mus'd, but in plain terms,  
With moderation, told her what I knew;  
But had you seen the starts and stops she made!  Borg. 
No doubt she did; Ten Thousand Curses, oh—  
Go on; for yet I am a fangless Lion.  Mace. 
Had you but heard when first his Wound I mentioned,  
How she shriek'd our; how oft she forced me swear,  
And swear, and swear again, it was not mortal!  Burg. 
Undone for ever! O destruction seize her!  Mach 
But when I told your hurt, she seemed scarce grieved,  
And lessening sorrow yielded to attention;  
I do not say she stable did rejoice.  
But sure I am, she smiled, and touched my Hand,  
And begged me, if you came this way, to hold you  
In talk, while to the sick she made a visit.  Borg. 
Thy Bosom be my Grave; bear me a while  
Or I shall burst. O Bellamira! Oh!  Mach. 
Raise, raise yourself. Ha, Prince! is this the Fire  
We feared but now, that most transporting fury?  Borg. 
No more; 'tis gone: O Marriage! now I find thee;  
Thou costly Feast, on which with fear we feed,  
As if each Golden Dish we taste were poisoned;  
Where, by the fatal Tyranny of Custom,  
Our Honour, like a Sword just pointing o'er us,  
Hangs by a Hair. Ha! but it comes, 'tis fallen!  
Like a forked Arrow stuck into my Skull.  
No more: I am deaf as Adders, and as deadly:  
Mercy! no more! thy Voice is quite uncharmed;  
All pity thus be dried from my weak Eyes:  
Here will I look my Mother's softness off,  
And gaze till Southern Fury steels my Soul,  
Till I am all my Father; till his Form,  
All bloody o'er from Head to Foot with slaughter,  
Skims o'er my polished Blade, in frowns to haste me.  Mach. 
What mean you, Sir?  Borg. 
I know not what myself!  
Off from my Arms; away. I've oftentimes heard  
At Prince's Murders, Monstrous Births forbade;  
The Heavens themselves rain Blood: Why, let it rain!  
If my Heart holds her purpose, with this hand  
will swell the Purple Deluge. Vengeance! Death and Vengeance. Exit.  Mach. 
No, my brave Warrior! 'tis not gone so far:  
These starts are but the hasty Harbingers  
To the slow Murder that comes dragging on:  
The Mischief's yet but young, an Infant Fury;  
'Tis the first brawl of newborn Jealousy:  
But I have Machiavellian Magic here  
Shall nurse this Brood of Hell to such perfection,  
As shall e'er long become the Devil's Manhood:  
But hark! the Noise approaches, and the time  
Put's me in mind of Bellamira's Letters— Exit.  Enter Borgia, Bellamira, Gandia. Borg. 
Furies and Hell! yet ere thou diest, proud Villain,  
Let me demand thee how thou dar'st abuse  
My Mercy thus?  Gand. 
I give thee back the Title;  
And have a heart so well assured of Death,  
That I disdain to answer.  Borg. 
die then, Traitor!  Bella. 
Hold, Borgia, hold! Hear Bellamira speak.  Borg. 
Confusion! off: and play not thus with Thunder,  
Lest it should blast thee took Hence, off, I say:  
Though thou deserv'st a Fate as sharp and sudden,  
I will take leisure in thy death. Be gone.  Bella. 
Behold, I grasp the Dagger, draw it through  
And gash my Veins, and tear my Arteries;  
I'll fix my hand thus to the wounding Blade  
While life will let me hold, and force thee hear me.  Borg. 
sayst, ha! wilt thou? dar'st thou brave me thus?  
Thus guilty too; once more forego my Poniard.  Bella. 
No: draw it, Cruel; let thy Bloody Deeds  
Be swifter than thy Threats: I fear thee not;  
But thus will wound myself, or quite disarm thee.  
Now you shall hear me.  Borg. 
Is this possible?  
Ha! Borgia! where! where is thy Fury now●  
Where thy Revenge? O Woman in perfection!  
Thou dazzling Mixture of Ten Thousand Circe's,  
In one bright heap cast by some huddling God,  
How dar'st thou venture thus? how dar'st thou do this?  
Yet heave thy Breasts, pant, breathe, and think on mercy?  Bella. 
My Acts have shown the care indeed I take  
To save my life: No, Prince, not for my own  
I would be heard, but for your innocent Brother's,  
Palante.  Borg. 
Ha● Palante! Yes, I know thee,  
There hangs thy Joy, thy Pulse, thy Breath and Motion,  
Blood, Life and Soul, thy Darling-Blessing's here,  
And more than all the joys of Heaven hereafter.  
O World of Horror! O Contagion, on  
The Day when first I saw thee.  Bella. 
Would you but hear—  Borg. 
Come off, I say! tear thy scarved wound tear't up,  
With these distilling drops; come glut thy Eyes,  
Glut 'em with Blood; for Borgia's Blood's thy Joy;  
For say— When at the Altar I stood bleeding,  
Speak Tygress, barbarous Wretch, thou she Palante,  
Didst thou once ask the occasion of my Wound?  
No— I remember thy uneasy Carriage,  
How often thou look'st back with longing Eyes!  
How oft in secret thou didst curse the Priest,  
The tedious length of whose slow Ceremonies  
Kept thee from flying to Palante's Arms.  Gand. 
Farewell, my Lord; think Bellamira guiltless,  
And you shall never see Palante more.  Borg. 
Stays Sir● come back, I know your Wound's a trouble;  
But the reward I mean is worth your waiting.  
Here, take him, Bellamira; clasp him;  
I give him thee, as our Physicians do.  
Prescribe l●st Remedies, to save thy life?  
I give him thee to save thy gasping Soul,  
Which would be damned without him; yet observe  
There is a Deed that must, that shall be done  
Before you laugh and kiss. See here, my bosom,  
Strike, and strike deep, deep as Palante burns thee;  
For in thy Heart, hot in thy inmost Veins,  
I know the cursed, the too loved Traitor lies.  Gand. 
I do renounce thy name, and to the Giver  
Report it with an equal Indignation!  Borg. 
Retort it! what?  Gand. 
The name of Traitor.  Borg. 
Ha!  
Provoke me not, lest as I am, unarmed,  
I crush thee with my Hands, and dash thee Dead.  Bella. 
Hold off, and hear me; noble Borgia, hear me!  
Hear me, my Lord, my Husband, hear me kneeling;  
Thou, whom the heavens' have destined to my Arms,  
The constant Partner of my nicest thoughts,  
Doom'd to my Bed, whom I must learn to love,  
And will, unless you turn my Heart to Stone.  Borg. 
Ha!  
O! such sweet words ne'er fell from that fair mouth  
Before, nor can I trust 'em now!  Bella. 
If you call back  
Th● Vengeance which your impious Vows let slip,  
I swear, thus sinking on your Feet, I swear  
Never from this sad hour, never to see,  
Nor speak, no, nor (if possible) to think  
Of poor Palante more.  Borg. 
Go on; go on; I swear the Wind is turned,  
And all those furious and outrageous passions  
Now bend another way.  Bella. 
I will hereafter,  
With strictest duty, serve you as my Lord,  
And give you signs of such most faithful love,  
That it shall seem as if we languished long,  
As if we had been used to mingle sighs  
And from our Cradles interchanged our Souls;  
As if no breach had ever been betwixt us;  
As if no cruel Father forced the Marriage;  
I so resigning as if always yours,  
And you so mild as if no other proof  
But my dishonour e'er could make you angry.  Borg. 
O my heart's joy! Rise, Bellamira, rise!  
There's nothing left, nothing of rage to fright thee;  
Thou hast new tuned me, and the trembling strings  
Of my touched heart dance to the Inspiration,  
As if no harshness, nor no jars had been:  
Had these sweet sounds but met my entrance here,  
My ghastly fears and cloven jealousies,  
With all the Monsters that made sick my Brain,  
Had fled (so soft and artful are thy strains,)  
Like fallen Fiends before the Prophet's Charms.  Bella. 
I came, 'tis true, my Lord, to see Palante,  
But thought him on his Deathbed.  Borg. 
O, no more!  
I do interest thee mention that no more;  
All's well; and we have mutually forgiven!  
I love thee, Bellamira; therefore pass  
This Error by; yes, for thyself I love thee!  
To glut my fancy with thy endless Charms.  
And search the pleasures of all Womankind:  
Thy fair Repentance, and thy graceful Vows,  
Have turn'd the eagerness of sworn revenge  
To furious Wishes for the promised Joy.  Enter Orsino. Gand. 
O blasting sight! O death to all my hopes!  
Life, thou art vile, and I will wait no longer.  Orsin. 
Ha! Traitor Prince— why, Borgia, does he live,  
Who has himself broke all the ties of blood?  
Where is the lewd Adult'ress too, my Daughter?  
For I will stab 'em in each others Arms.  Borg. 
Hold! Orsino! for revenge is now  
No more; Thy Daughter is most innocent,  
And melts into my Arms. O happy Night!  
Not to the weary Pilgrim half so welcome,  
When after many a weary bleeding step  
With joyful looks he spies his longed for Home.  
See, see, my Lord, the effects of our Vexation!  
Thus comes to the despairing Wretch, the glad  
Reprieve: ●Tis Mercy, Mercy at the Block:  
Thus the tossed Seaman, after boisterous Storms,  
Lands on his Country's Breast; thus stands, and gazes,  
And runs it o'er with many a greedy look;  
Then shouts for joy, as I should do, and makes  
The Echoing Hills and all the Shores resound.  Orsin. 
Now Blessings on thy Heart; more Blessings on thee,  
Than, on thy Disobedience, Curses. Take him, Girl,  
And lay him to thy heart; the warmest Gift  
That Nature, or thy Father, can bestow!—  Gand. 
Farewell, thrice happy Lover! never shall  
This Wretch again disturb your Bellamira,  
O Bellamira— Exit.  Bella. 
O farewell, for ever!  Borg. 
Why dost thou weep? and pour into my wounds  
New Oil to make 'em blaze?  Bella. 
I've done, my Lord;  
Let me but dry my Eyes, and I will wait you,  
To Death, or to your Bed—  Borg. 
O ill compared!  
Be constant Bellamira to thy Vows,  
So shall we shine, as in the inmost Heaven;  
The fixed and brightest Stars with silent glory,  
Where never Storm, nor Lightnings flash, nor stroke  
Of Thunder comes; but if you fail in aught,  
Then shall we fall like the cast Angels down,  
Never to rise again: Therefore I warn thee—  Bell. 
Fear not, my Lord.  Borg. 
O! I must fear my temper;  
But I will purge it off with resolution's  
And with a confidence thou wilt be mine●  
For shouldst thou not: Hence Gorgon Jealousy!  
Cam'st thou uncalled to set me on the Rack?  
Be gone, I say, she's chaste, and I defy thee.  
O plague me, Heavens plague me with all the woe●  
That man can suffer: root up my possessions,  
Shipwreck my far-sought Ballast in the Haven;  
Fire all my Cities, burn my Dukekoms down,  
Let midnight Wolves howl in my Desert Chambers:  
May the Earth yawn; shatter the frame of Nature;  
Let the racked Orbs in Whirlwinds round me move,  
But save me from the rage of jealous Love. Exeunt.   

ACT IU.  
SCENE I.  Soft Music, with an Epithalamium to Borgia and Bellamira● 

1  
BLush not redder than the Morning,  
Though the Virgins gave you warning;  
Sigh not at the chance befell ye,  
Though they smile, and dare not tell ye.   

2  
Maids, like Turtles, love the Cooing,  
Bill and murmur in their Wooing.  
Thus like you, they start and tremble,  
And their troubled joys dissemble.   

3  
Grasp the pleasure while 'tis coming,  
Though your Beauties now are blooming;  
Time at last your joys will sever,  
And they'll part, they'll part for ever.   Enter Machiavelli and Adorna. Mach. 
sayst thou, so loving?  Adorn. 
O! he has got ground  
Beyond all expectation: Had you seen  
His graceful manner, when the sighing Bride  
Was last night by your Arms given to his Bed;  
When after she was laid, quite drowned in tears,  
How, awed with trembling, he the Curtains drew,  
And kneeling by her Bed side, took her fair hand,  
With which she strove to hide her Blushes from him,  
And sighing, swore upon't— if so she pleased,  
If her cold heart refused him utterly,  
He would forgo his Joys, though death ensued.  
You muse, my Lord.  Mach. 
This day attend my Motion:  
Soon as my purpose hits, which you must watch,  
I'll train the Bridegroom near Palante's Lodgings;  
Whence, as you were before by me instructed,  
You with this Letter (which from all the Pacquets  
I chose, and notably suits our design)  
Shall issue forth, an act as I inspired—  Adorn. 
I fear this business,  
Lest he should kill me: in this height of fury,  
Murder his Brother, or his Innocent Lady.  Mach. 
I tell thee, though a Whirlwind drove him on,  
I'll make him calm. The consequence of this  
I● thine: He drives Palante from the Palace,  
Who else may linger after Bellamira;  
And then thou know'st—  Adorn. 
I will about it straight.  
If I get clear of this, use me no more,  
For I have sworn to cease—  Mach. 
Prithee, be gone—  
Use me no more: For she has sworn to cease, Ex. Adorna.  
To dip her Lady finger in new mischief:  
Yes— thou shalt cease to live when I have used thee,  
Poor useless thing.— But see the Bridegrooms here.  Enter Borgia. 
My Lord, I give you joy: your motion gives it  
Your wondrous gallantry, and sprightly action.  
But has she wholly yielded to your wishes,  
Without the least reserve?  Borg. 
Oh!  
I cannot tell thee aught but this, I am happy  
Above expression, blessed beyond all hope;  
And sure such perfect joy cannot last long,  
Lest we be Gods. O thou great Chemist, Nature,  
Who drawst one spirit so sublimely perfect,  
Thou mak'st a Dreg of all the World beside.  Mach. 
Why, this at first I told you, but you feared,  
And pushed the blessing from you with both hands.  
I grant you that she loved your Brother first;  
I know he's young, and handsome, has a Wit  
Most suitable to Woman's inclination,  
A subtle Genius, soft and voluble,  
That winds with their discourse, and hits the Vein:  
'Tis true, you are not of this subtle Mould;  
But if you have enjoyed her, 'tis all one,  
My life she loves you: so the Act's resolved,  
Leave them to manage. O ye know 'em not:  
Those subtle Creatures, when necessity  
Forces compliance, in a case like yours,  
Will make the best on't.  Borg. 
How Machiavelli, the best on't! Ha! how mean'st thou?  Mach. 
Why thus; she may, even Bellamira may,  
Spite of her Father's will, her Vows in Marriage,  
And all her after-Oaths, even in your Arms  
Bestow herself upon the Duke of Gandia.  Borg. 
Ha!  Mach. 
I say not (pardon me!) she does, or will;  
But to make good my former argument,  
Affirm they may, they can, they will do thus.  
As for example, though your Bellamira,  
Compelled as all Rome knows to this late Marriage,  
Admits you to her Bed; you cannot think,  
But her Palante had been much more welcome.  Borg. 
Heaven  Mach. 
'Tis likely too her Fancy worked that way  
I urged before, she took you for Palante:  
'Tis dark, she sees you not; you are his Brother,  
Formed in one Womb, of the same flesh and blood;  
Therefore she yields as to foreknown Embraces:  
And as you gently draw with trembling arms  
Her nice Beauties to your heaving Breasts;  
She shuts her eyes with languishing delight,  
And whispers to her heart, it is Palante.  Borg. 
Cease Machiavelli; hold, as thou lov'st my life,  
I charge thee hold: O, 'tis most true I swear!  
Thou know'st the very depth of Womankind:  
They are what thy Imagination paints 'em,  
Charmers and Sorceresses. O, I'll tell thee,  
When I the chastest, as I thought her then●  
I am sure the sweetest of the Earth, embraced—  
'Twas with complain, Machiavelli; such tremblings,  
I could have sworn her cold as Winter Streams,  
But oh the horrors thou hast conjured up●  
Soon as soft sleep had sealed her melting eyes,  
I heard her sigh; for till the morn I waked,  
Palante. Oh— what have we done, Palante?  Mach. 
By Heaven, that was too much.  Borg. 
O much,— much more.  
For stealing nearer me; her glowing arm,  
Cast o'er my Cheek, thrice pressed me to her Breast;  
Even that coy arm, so nicely strange before,  
Families grew, and circled in my Neck,  
With all the freedom of acquainted Love:  
And I too piti'd her, and thought that Nature  
Worked her imperfectly; but now I know,  
I find, I see, it was her heart's design,  
The black contrivance of her blotted Fancy:  
Blood, Blood and Death; thus has she set me down,  
Through the whole course of her polluted nights,  
To be her Bawd, her most industrious Groom,  
The Drudge of her damned Lust— Palante's stale—  Mach 
Are you incensed indeed? or do you, Sir,  
Put on this jealous Fit to make you sport?  
For if so small a Spark thus makes you glow,  
A little more will blow you into Flame:  
Therefore be serious in your Answer.  Borg. 
Ha!  
Thou know'st before my Marriage how I feared,  
How when my Honour was engaged by Vows,  
Like Flax my jealous temper caught the Flame,  
And scarce could all her melting sorrows quench me!  Mach. 
I do remember well.  Borg. 
But now I have enjoyed her; mark me, Machiavelli,  
If I was Flax before, I am Powder now,  
And will fly up in general Conflagration:  
For I would choose to scramble at a Door,  
Make my loathed Meals out of the common Basket,  
With Dungeon Villains, wallow in the Stews,  
And get my Bread by poisoning my firm Limbs,  
ere pass an hour with her I have Espoused,  
If but in thought consenting with another.  Mach. 
I am glad to find the Genius of your Climate  
Inflames you thus; my Lord, give me your Hand:  
Prepare your Soul, gather your Nobler Spirits,  
And bid 'em stand to Arms, like Towns besieged,  
That must receive no Quarter.  Borg. 
Let me go:  
So deep thou threaten'st, that I fear even thee;  
And from this moment, like the fearful Plant,  
Shrink back my Arms from every Human touch:  
But speak, I charge thee, slip the struggling Thunder,  
And foil my Soul.  Mach. 
This Morning, just before you entered here,  
I saw in haste Adorna 'cross the Garden,  
And as she ran, a Note dropped from her Bosom,  
Which I took up, and in it read these words;  
Mourn not, my dear Palante, for the time  
Draws on, when spite of this inhuman Borgia  
We will be happy.  Borg. 
Yes, she shall, she shall;  
I'll join 'em Breast to Bosom, stab 'em through,  
And clinch my Dagger on the other side.  Mach. 
This, as I oft perused in great amazement,  
I saw her who had missed the Note, come back,  
And briefly let her know that I had read it;  
With Menaces, unless she told me all,  
Immediately to carry you the Letter.  
Why should I rack you longer? your Chaste Wife  
Has with the help of this her Kinswoman  
Concluded, on the date of your first absence,  
To admit your Brother.  Borg. 
'Tis impossible!  
'Tis mountainous to Faith; I'll not believe it:  
For Hell itself ne'er teemed with such a falsehood.  Enter Adorna. Mach. 
Ha— as I live, just from Palante now,  
The private way from his Apartment, see  
Their Emissary comes.  Borg. 
O thou vile Bawd!  
Thou Midnight Hag; thou most Contagious Blast,  
Which Bellamira with a Strumpet's breath  
Blows to Palante, and he back to her:  
Whence com'st thou? speak! what bear'st thou? Ha, produce it,  
Or I will tear thee Limb from Limb.  Adorn. 
O heavens'!  
I am betrayed, undone, for ever ruined; and I shall lose my life.  Borg. 
Thou shalt be safe, I swear thou shalt, if thou confess the truth:  
But if thou hide aught from me, I will rack thee,  
Till with thy horrid Groans thou wake the Dead.  Adorn. 
O my Lord!  
I do confess that Bellamira sent me●  
But sure no har● was in the Letter.  Borg. 
None,  
None at all; Hell knows her Innocence:  
But speak—  Adorn. 
I have, my Lord, confessed already  
All that I know, to my Lord Machiavelli.  Borg. 
Thou liest, damned Wretch! look here, and dare not urge me!  
Show me the Answer to the Morning Message,  
Or I will cut thee to Anatomy,  
And search through all thy Veins to find it out.  Adorn. 
O, save my life! behold, my Lord, this Paper:  
What it contains, I know not.  Borg. 
'Tis his hand.  Mach. 
Be gone; and on thy life no talk of this.— Ex. Adorna.  Borg. reads. 

Palante waits upon your motion. Death and Devils!  
And when you call, he comes; or the long sleep  
Shall hush him ever.   
Daggers! Poison! Fire. Tears the Letter.  
Woe, and ten thousand horrors on their Souls.  Mach. 
What now, my Lord?  Borg. 
Off— or I'll stab thee through!  
Stab— I could mangle, tear up my own Breast,  
Drag forth my heart that holds her bleeding Image,  
And dash it in her face.  Mach. 
Talk no more on't; but do, Sir, do.  Borg. 
Yes, Machiavelli, I will— I will do deed●  
Grained as my wrongs: I will, I will be bloody  
As Pyrrhus, daubed in Murder at the Altar;  
As Tullia, driving through her Father's Bowels●  
As Caesar Butchers in the Capitol;  
As Nero bathing in his Mother's Womb;  
With all succeeding Tyrants down to ours.  
Lords of the Inquisition, black Contrivers  
Of princes' Deaths, and Heads of Massacres;  
Orsino, Vitellozzo, Duke Gravina,  
Oliverotto too; all, all at once,  
Even the whole Race, a Hecatomb to Vengeance.  Mach. 
Hear me one word.  Borg. 
Bid the Sea listen, when the weeping Merchant,  
To gorge its ravenous Jaws, hurls all his Wealth,  
And stands himself upon the splitting Deck,  
For the last plunge. No more! let's rush together;  
For Death rides Post.  Mach. 
Though Death should meet me,  
More horrid than you Name, I'd cross this fury,  
This blind, ungoverned rage: Sir you shall hear me.  Borg. 
Barrest thou my Vengeance?  Mach. 
No— I'll further it:  
You shall have proof so plain, the World shall say,  
The Pope himself, dear as he loves your Brother,  
Shall say the stroke was just. This Night I'll bring you  
Into her Chamber, if with some pretence  
You seem t'absent yourself: my Lord, I'll bring you  
With a false Key into the Bridal Lodging;  
Where you shall see, even with those eyes behold,  
And gaze upon their cursed incestuous Loves.  Borg. 
Just reeking from my arms! O thou Adulteress!  
Whose Name to mention, sure would rot my Lungs,  
And blister up my Tongue; Insatiate Scylla!  
Barkest thou for more? then let the Furies seize thee,  
Whose burning Lust damns to the lowest Hell,  
Smokes to the heavens', and sullies all the Stars.  Mach. 
Compose your looks, smooth down that starting hair,  
And dry your eyes, with spite of this distraction,  
I see are full, brim full of gushing tears.  Borg. 
Had she not fallen thus, O ten thousand Worlds  
Could not have balanced her, for Heaven is in her,  
And joys which I must never dream of more;  
I weep, 'tis true: But, Machiavelli, I swear,  
They're Tears of Vengeance, drops of liquid fire:  
So Marble weeps when Flames surround the Quarry,  
And the piled Oaks spout forth such scalding Bubbles  
Before the general blaze; for that she dies,  
Though clinging to the Altar; Guardian Gods,  
Though starting from their Shrines, shall not redeem her.  Mach. 
Pretend to night, nor is it bare pretence;  
For, as I hear, the Sinigallian Victors  
Come on to wait you here: Pretend to her,  
To Bellamira, you can scarce return  
In forty hours.  Borg. 
I will do what I may.  Mach. 
Away then.  Borg. 
Ha! methinks thou dost not share  
In my resentment, Machiavelli, as thou ought'st:  
If thou art my Friend, and art indeed concerned,  
Relieve my wearied fury, beat my Vengeance,  
Call up a friendly rage, and curse 'em, Machiavelli,  
Curse these Triumphers o'er thy Borgia's ruin.  Mach. 
Diseases wait 'em: Wherefore should I curse 'em?  
If that my Breath were sulphurous as the Lightning  
That murders with a blast; or like the Vapours,  
The choking stench, which those that die of Plagues  
Send with their parting groans, than I would curse him  
With Accents that should poison from my Tongue,  
Delivered strongly through my gnashing Teeth;  
More harsh, more horrible, and more outrageous,  
Than Envy in her Cave, or Madmen in their Dens.  Borg. 
Excellent, Machiavelli! more, more, to lull me.  Mach. 
My Tongue should stammer in my earnest words;  
My eyes should sparkle like the beaten Flint.  Borg. 
This hoary Hair should start, and stand an end,  
And all thy shaking joints should seem to curse 'em.  Mach. 
Nay, since you urge me, Sir, my heart will break,  
Unless I curse 'em! Poison be their drink.  Borg. 
Gall and Wormwood! Hemlock! Hemlock! quench 'em.  Mach. 
Their sweetest Shade, a Dell of duskish Adders.  Borg. 
Their fairest Prospect, Fields of Basilisks:  
Their softest touch, as smart as Viper's Teeth.  Mach. 
Their Music horrid as the hiss of Dragons,  
All the foul terrors of dark-seated Hell.  Borg. 
No more; thou art one piece with me myself:  
And now I take a pride in my revenge.  Mach. 
You bid me ban, and will you bid me cease?  
Now, by your wrongs that turn my heart to steel,  
Well could I curse away a Winter's night,  
Though standing naked on a Mountain's top,  
And think it but a minute spent in sport.  Borg. 
Thou best of Friends! come to my Arms, my Brother:  
But the time calls, and Vengeance bids us part;  
Henceforth, be thou the Mistress of my Heart. Ex.  Mach. 
Now it grows ripe; the Orsins, and Vitelli,  
Are buried by my Wit without a noise.  
O! 'tis the safer course, for threats are dangerous,  
But there's no danger in the Execution;  
For he that's dead, ne'er thinks upon revenge.  
What, hoa— Alonzo!—  Enter Alonzo. Alonz. 
Here, my Lord.  Mach. 
Are the Gloves brought I sent to the Perfumers?  Alonz. 
They are.  Mach. 
Where is Adorna?  Alonz. 
She waits without.  Mach. 
As you see her enter,  
Bring me the Gloves: 'Twere easy strangling her,  
But this is quainter.— O my bright Adorna!  Enter Adorna. 
With confidence I swear the Duke is thine.  Adorn. 
May I believe it?  Mach. 
Be judge, thyself, whether I have been idle!  
These were a Present from the King of Spain,  
To the Pope's Niece; of whom the fond young Duke  
Begged 'em for thee.  Adorn. 
Is't possible?  Mach. 
Stay Madam— we must change  
One Present for another. Lend me the Key  
To Bellamira's Chamber.  Adorn. 
For what?  Mach. 
Nay, if we ba●ter words.  Adorn. 
Here, here, my Lord.  
Now give me the dear Present.  
See, see, my Lord, they are embossed with Jewels,  
And cast so rich an Odour, they o'ercome me—  
Help me— my Lord— O help me— lend your Arm—  
The Earth turns round with me! O mercy, Heaven— Dy●s●  Mach. 
Remove the Body—  
Then haste, and find the Duke of Gandia out,  
ere he removes, as he intends to night;  
Having Commission from the Pope to lead  
Th' Italian Armies; earnestly entreat him,  
To honour me by making one last Visit,  
Which equally imports him as his life.  Enter Borgia and Bellamira. Borg. 
Upon the instant, Fairest, I must leave you;  
The Lord of Firmo, with the Duke your Uncle,  
Have taken Sinigallia by surprise:  
What else, but meeting thy Victorious Kinsmen,  
Should draw me from thy Arms? yet thus divided  
But for a day or two, methinks I part,  
As Souls are severed from their warmer Mansions,  
To wander in the bleak and desert Air.  
O Bellamira!  Bell. 
Why do you sigh, my Lord?  
If 'tis your pleasure, let 'em wait you here;  
Or if my Presence can dispel these Clouds  
That make you say, I will attend you thither;  
For while life lasts I will be all obedience.  Borg. 
Couldst thou hold there, how might we laugh at Fate!  
So kindled both by Love, and by Ambition,  
How would I sweep, like Tempests, with a waste  
Over all Italy, and Crown the Empress  
Here in the Heart of Rome— my bright Angusta,  
But 'tis impossible.  Bell. 
Then you conclude, my Lord, I am not true.  Borg. 
Why, art thou? Is there such a thing in Nature  
As a true Wife? No, Bellamira no—  
Thou wouldst be monstrous then, even to derision:  
For the whole Flock of common Wives would hoot thee,  
And drive thee, like a Bird, without one Feather  
Of thy own kind.  Bell. 
Once more upon my knees,  
In view of all the Hierarchy of Heaven,  
I here attend my spotless Innocence.  Borg. 
Still Machiavelli, still let us keep to death;  
Our Principle, that we are dust when dead;  
For, were there any Hell, or any Devil  
But hot enough to make an Exhortation,  
Would he not fetch her now? would he not dam her?  
I do believe thee guiltless: Therefore rise;  
But since thou art so confidently clear,  
Swear Bellamira, if I prove thee false,  
What e'er I threat, nay, though I put in act  
Those Menaces, thou wilt not call me Tyrant.  Bell. 
I swear by Heaven I will submit my life  
To the severest stroke of your revenge.  Borg. 
If then I prove thee false, O Bellamira!  
Not that Celestial Copy, even thy Face,  
Shall scape; but I will raze the Draught, as if  
It ne'er had been the pattern of the Gods.  Bell. 
Act what you please; but speak no more, my Lord,  
For every word's a bolt, and strikes me dead.  Borg. 
If thou art false, and if I prove thee so,  
That skin of thine, that matchless West of Heaven,  
Which some more curious Angel cast about thee,  
Will I tear off, though cleaving to the Shrine.  Bell. 
Speak to him, Machiavelli! O fatal Marriage!  Borg. 
If thou dost play me false, think not of mercy;  
Thy Father shall be burnt before thy eyes.  Bell. 
O horrid thought!  Borg. 
Thy Uncles, Brothers, Sisters,  
All that have any relish of thy blood,  
I'll rack to death, and throw their Limbs before thee:  
Therefore look to't; beware, if thou art false,  
I'll take thee unprepared, and sink thy Soul:  
Therefore, I say again, beware! I've warned thee;  
Body and Soul, even everlasting ruin;  
For so may Heaven have mercy upon mine  
At my last gasp, as I'll have none on thine.— Exit.  Bell. 
O 'tis too plain! I am lost, undone for ever.  
What, but one Night, even the first Nuptial Night,  
So sought, so courted, and so hardly won;  
And the next day, nay, the succeeding More  
To be used thus— Let me go, let me go,  
For I'll proclaim him through the streets of Rome  
The traitor, Monster— O, I could shake the world  
With thundering forth my wrongs; Hollow his Name  
To the resounding Hills? Borgia! Traitor Borgia!  
Methinks that word, that spell, that horrid sound,  
That groan of Air could cleave the neighbouring Rocks,  
And scare the babbling Echoes from their Dens.  Mach. 
Perhaps some busy Slave has whispered him  
I know not what, that chafes his melancholy  
Against your Honour.  Bell. 
That's impossible!  
And I denied to admit him to my Bed,  
Some seeming cause, some reason for distrust  
Might then be given; but the bright heavens' know  
I had resolved to take him for my Lord,  
And love him too, or force my inclination,  
So subtly had he wrought by deep dissembling  
Upon my plain and undiscerning weakness:  
But now he's gorged, the Monster shows himself,  
Appears all Beast, and I must die, he cries.  
Ah Cruelty! and all my wretched Race.  Mach. 
Madam, you know how near a Friendship grows  
Betwixt the Duke of Gandia, and myself:  
After this night you'll never see him more:  
Yet, ere he goes, as he to night is ordered,  
Hue ill unfold, if you permit him leave,  
The only means to save your Father's life!  
Nay, and the lives of all your Family.  Bell. 
O Machiavelli! now, where is thy advice?  
Had I not reason for my dreadful fears?  
My Father dies; and by whose Hand but Borgia's?  
What shall I do? where shall I go? and whither shall I run?  
Ten thousand horrors! O, instruct me, Machiavel,  
For I grow desperate!  Mach. 
Admit the Duke of Gandia,  
This night, for one last Conference: your Husband  
Cannot return, unless he ride the Wind  
In forty hours—  Bell. 
Here I am lost again:  
Should he return, and find Palante with me,  
Whom I have sworn never to see, discourse,  
Never to hear of, scarce to think of more,  
What Mountains then should hide me from his fury?  
Yet I see him not, my poor old Father,  
With all his Children, Brothers, and Relations●  
Top, Root and Branches, all must be cut down;  
Hear, Heaven, hear● I must kneel to thee for succour;  
O aid my Virtue, and support my weakness:  
Methinks I am inspired; some Guardian-Spirit  
Whispers me, save, O save thy Father's life!  
Bring him then, Machiavelli, bring the Duke of Gandia:  
Yet stay! methinks I see the Tyrant there!  
My bloody Husband, with his Poniard drawn,  
Just at the Door: Stop, stop, the Duke of Gandia,  
He shall not come: Why, then thy Father dies;  
O horrid state! weep eyes, and bleed, O heart!  
Let Nature burst with these unheard of sufferings!  
Forbid him, Machiavelli; or let him come,  
All have their Fate, and I'll expect my Doom.— Ex. severally.   

ACT V.  

SCENE I.  Enter Machiavelli, and Alonzo. Alonz. 
MY Lord, I have been diligent.  Mach. 
And always were't my subtle Emissary;  
My glance of Death, and Lantern to my mischiefs.  Alonz. 
I met the Duke of Gandia at the Head  
Of his new Forces, and acquainted him  
As you directed; and he'll straight attend your  
But as I whispered him, Duke Valentin●  
With a vast Train came up to take his leave,  
Being called (as Fame reports) to Sinigallia:  
But had you seen the Embraces, heard the Vows  
Which Borgia swore should be inviolable,  
And ratified 'em with a parting Kiss.  Mach. 
'Tis my own Borgia; a very Limb of me;  
And when he dies, thou'lt see me halt, Alonzo.  Enter Gandia. 
My Lord, most welcome! Alonzo— hence— O Prince!— Ex. Alonz.  
Was ever Slave so careful for his Lord,  
That watched his Nod, as I have been for you?  Gand. 
I must with shame to Death acknowledge it.  
But didst thou know, or couldst thou guests, how near  
The loss of Bellamira touches me,  
Thou wouldst forgive me.  Mach. 
I have excused you, Sir:  
And for a witness of my faster Friendship,  
This Night have sent the Duke to Sinigallia,  
That you might take your last farewell of Love,  
And Bellamira.  Gand. 
And has the Cruel Fair consented to it?  Mach. 
She has consented, rather by constraint,  
Than her own will: I was forced to tell her,  
How you had signified to me, her Father  
Was in great hazard; but if she vouchsafed  
A Visit, you would satisfy her better.  Enter Alonzo: Gand. 
Ha! what's this? a sudden fall of Spirits—  Alonz. 
My Lord, he's in's Litter muffled up,  
In a dark Avenue behind the Palace;  
And bid me fly to tell you, Tarquin's Poppies  
Are bound up all together in one Sheaf.  Mach. 
Haste thee, and make my Answer thus— The Time  
Calls for their Heads. This Key, my Lord, admits you—  Gand. 
'Tis now no time for thanks; but if I live— Exit.  Mach. 
Why, this is true Italian! turning thus  
A Key with Machiavellian slight of hand,  
Two Families of the best Southern Blood,  
With the first Prince in Rome, are quite extinct:  
What foggy Northern Brain would dream of this?  Borgia muffled in a Cloak. Borg. 
My Machiavelli!  Mach. 
My Prince, my God like Borgia!  Borg. 
Tell me my Bos●m-sin; am I awake?  
Alive? and may I credit this thy Summons?  Mach. 
No sooner were you gone, but your Chaste Wife,  
Whom I imagined dead with what you uttered:  
I say, this Wife, this heavenly Wife of yours●  
Rearing her Head, and wiping her dry Eyes,  
Dropping her Chin to make her smile more scornful,  
Cried out, Lord Machiavelli, you see, you see,  
What Things these Husbands are, and left the Room.  Borg. 
Racks, racks, and fire; Caldrons of molten Lead,  
How shall I torture her?  Mach. 
Sreight, by her walking Packet,  
She signified her pleasure to the Duke,  
Who soon approached, and with a matchless boldness  
Desired my friendship in this private business:  
I smiled, and promised that I would not see,  
Though I beheld Adorna let him in;  
Whom since I poisoned, lest she should betray  
The secret of your coming.  Borg. 
By Death and Vengeance  
I could turn Cannibal, and with my teeth  
Tear her alive. But let us talk no more.  Enter D. Michael. 
What Hoa, Don Michael! when I stamp my foot  
Against the ground, bring forth the Prisoners,  
And execute as I shall order. Ex. Michael.  Mach. 
Pass the back way, my Lords this Door is lock'd●  
If that be shut too, force it open, while  
I set a Guard on this: Millions to one,  
But when she hears your voice, she'll hide the Duke,  
And then deny him boldly to your Face.  
'Tis like those subtle Creatures.  Borg. 
Damn 'em, Serpents!  
What needs this aggravation? Revenge! away— Exit.  Mach. 
Now like a Greybound barking in the slips,  
Death struggles for a loose; I must be gone,  
And lurk in Shadows till the Murder's done.  
Hark, 'tis doing, the Doors are thundered down!  
O! for an Earthquake now to swallow all,  
All that oppose my Tyrant, to the Centre—  Scene draws: Borgia, Bellamira, Duke of Gandia disarmed: D. Michael, etc. Borg. 
Slave, run you down, and bar the Palace Gates;  
Let not a Soldier stir on pain of death,  
Till I appoint. What's he you have disarmed?  
Haste, drag him forth, and put the Tapers near him:  
Lightning and Thunder! Ha! the Duke of Gandia!  
Rage burn me up; it is not possible:  
Woman, O Woman!  Bella 
O heavens'! O all ye Powers!  
Is there not one, one Door for Mercy left?  Borg. 
Pull off his Robes, and bind him to a Chair;  
Ply him with Fire and Wounds— Yes, Bellamira,  
There is a Floodgate— but it is of Blood;  
A Gate for Mercy wide, as thou hast shown  
For Honour, Chastity, and Bridal Virtue.  
See here the Sluice I draw, through doors of wounds;  
Thy Vows; this sulphurous stench thy Kisses.  Bella. 
Hold, hold, Tormentors!  Borg. 
Seize the Furies Arms,  
And execute my Orders.  Gand. 
O unmerciful!  
O Borgia: when, when shall my Torments end?  Bella. 
Ha! is it doing? Wretches, Villains, Dogs,  
Miscreants, Sons of Hell, and Brood's of Darkness!  Gand. 
Humanity can bear no more. My heart, strike there.  Bella. 
'Tis done; O the dark deed is done!  
O l●● me gather all the rage of Woman,  
And tell this Tyrant to his Teeth, he is a Villain.  Gand. 
Mercy, gentle Borgia, mercy!  Bella. 
He gentle; then the Devils themselves have mercy,  
O Monster, rocky Villain, Tiger, Hellhound,  
Seize him you Fiends, and Furies damn him, damn him,  
May Hell have infinite stories, and this Devil  
Be damned beneath the bottomless Foundation.  Borg. 
By Heaven she weeps: here, dip her Handkerchief  
Dipped in his blood, and bid her dry her eyes.  Bella. 
O thou Eternal Mover of the heavens',  
Where are thy Bolts?  Gand. 
I go, O Bellamira!  
Thinkest thou, alas, that we shall know each other  
In the bright World; I fear we shall not— Oh!  
Borgia farewell. Thy Bride is Innocent;  
Let Bellamira live, and I forgive thee.— Dies.  Bella. 
He's gone; to Heaven he's gone, as sure as thou  
Shalt sink to Hell, thou Tyrant, double damned:  
Nay, thou wouldst have me rage, and I will rage,  
And weep, and rage, and show thee to the world,  
Thou Priest, Archbishop, Cardinal, and Duke,  
Thou that hast run through all Religious Orders,  
And with a form of Virtue cloaked thy horrors!  
Thou proper Son of that old cursed Serpent,  
Who daubs the holy Chair with Blood and Murders:  
But sure the Everlasting has a Chain  
To bind yours Charm, and link you both together;  
Hell's Vicar, and his first begotten Devil,  
Hotter than Lucifer in all his Flames.  Enter Alonzo. Borg. 
What, hoa, Alonzo! strangle the prisoners,  
Orsino! Vitellozo: haste, I say,  
Without reply.—  Bella. 
O spare him! spare my Father!  
And I'll unsay, forswear all that I have said:  
O, I have played the Woman now indeed,  
A lying, foolish, vexed, outrageous Woman!  
To set your Wrath against the Innocent;  
There was a seeming cause for the Duke's Death  
And mine; But, Oh! what has Orsino done?  
Orsino loves you: Oh, that good old man!  
Your Father— For so a thousand times  
I've heard you call him, seen you kiss, embrace him!  
Therefore he must not, cannot die!  Borg. 
Alonzo!  Alonz. 
My Lord!  Borg. 
Slave, I'll strangle thee Strike● him.  
With my own hands● if thou delay'st my Vengeance:  
Say, Villain, what, not dead?  Alonz. 
My Lord, they are:  
And, if I live, you shall repent this blow— Aside,  Borg. 
Go, draw the Curtain; glut her eyes with Death,  
And strangle her: my Veins are all on Fire,  
And I could wade up to the eyes in blood.  
Draw, draw the Curtain.  Orsin. Vitellez. D. Graviana, Oliverotto, appear disguised. Bella. 
Gorgon, Medusa, Horror;  
Yet I will shoot through Daggers, rush through flames  
To clasp him in my arms, O wretched Paul,  
O noble Orsin, what quite cold? pale, dead?  
And you, dear Images, will you not give  
One gasp of breath, one groan, one last farewell?  
Horror! Confusion! and eternal shame  
Light on thee for this deed: I tell thee, Borgia,  
I see thee on thy Deathbed, all on Fire,  
As if some Hellish poison had inflamed thee;  
I see thee thrown ten Fathom in a Well,  
Yet still come up, like Aetna's belching Flames.  Borg. 
I hope thou wilt go mad, and prophesy!  Bella. 
Yes, Tyrant, thus, thus to thy face I brave thee,  
And tell thee in despite of Threats, e'er long  
Thou and thy holy Father shall be seized,  
And carried to the Everlasting Goal;  
From whence not all your Spanish Cardinals,  
Your Bailiffs, in red Liverie●, shall redeem you—  Borg. 
die in thy prophecy; Alonzo end her—  Bella. 
Thus, on my knees then— And for terror to thee,  
Hear my last prayer, and mark my dying words.  
If I in thought, in word, in private act  
Have yielded up this Body to the Arms  
Of aught that's Mortal, but inhuman Borgia!  
Oh thou impartial and most awful Judge!  
Shut, shut thy gates of bliss against my Soul;  
But if my tortured virtue merits glory,  
Pardon my frailties, see with what joy  
I leave this life, and bring me to perfection. She is strangled.  Borg. 
What, at her Death! she that believed a Heaven,  
And feared, a Hell, yet to depart a Liar:  
But how know I that she believed a Heaven?  
Or why with hopes that in the pangs of Death  
I would reprieve her, might she not deny  
Her Whoredom to the last? but that's unnatural!  
What wouldst thou then? I will no more of this;  
It clouds my brain: Hence, Alonzo, bear,  
Bear the Duke of Gandia's Body to the Tiber  
In some close Chair, tie at his neck a Weight,  
And plung him to the Bottom.  Alonz. 
my Lord 'tis done. Ex. Executioners with the Body.  Borg. 
I swear I have been cruel to myself,  
For that I loved her, is as true, as she  
〈◊〉 past the sense on't: she is cold already—  Enter Machiavelli. Mach. 
Ha! this is stately Mischief! what, my four Foes  
Of Florence! but they are dumb. Ha! gazing there,  
I like not that—  Borg. 
Her lips are lovelyst ill;  
The Buds, though gathered, keep their Damask Colour:  
Yes, and there odour too! haste Machiavel,  
Rush to my aid: I grow in Love with death.  
She shall not die! Run Slaves! fetch hither Spirits,  
I will recover her again!  Mach. 
Again to plague?  
To meet again another Duke of Gandia?  Borg. 
Death on that thought: no, let her die, and rot;  
The damned Adultress! perish the thoughts of her,  
Ha, tell me, come: I will no more of her.  
How shall the bodies be disposed? I sent  
My Brother to the Tiber.  Mach. 
That's a trouble,  
I'll find an easier way for these, and her  
That sleeps within my Closet. Go, Don Michael,  
Bury 'em all together in quick Lime;  
In some few hours the flesh will be consumed:  
Then burn the bones, and all is dust and ashes.  Draw here the Curtains on 'em. Borg. 
I swear this body shall not be consumed;  
I'll have't embalmed to stay a thousand years.  
O Machiavelli! I swear, I know not why,  
But with a World of horror to my Soul,  
With tremblings here, Convulsions of the heart;  
As if I had some God thus whisper to me.  
Thou ought'st to grieve for Bellamira's Death.  Mach. 
My Lord, a very fond and foolish Fancy.  Borg. 
I say, my Lord, your policy is out:  
Furies and Hell! how should you judge of Love,  
That never loved? Thou hast no taste of Love,  
No sense. no relish— why did I trust thee then?  
Had any softness dwelled in that lean bosom●  
My Bellamira, now had been alive:  
Tho I had cause to kill her, thou hadst none;  
To set me on, but honour; jealous honour!  
Oh the last night! I tell thee, Politician!  
When I run o'er the vast delight, I curse thee,  
And curse myself; nay wish I had been found  
Dead in her Arms; But take her, bear her hence:  
And thou lov'st me, drive her from my Memory. They remove her.  
Tell me my Brother's Murder is discovered;  
That the four Ghosts are up again in arms:  
Say any thing to make me mad, and lose  
This Melancholy, which will else destroy me.  Mach. 
I here the Pope has sent to Sinigallia  
To call you back.  Borg. 
By Heaven, I had forgot,  
And thou most opportunely has remembered:  
You know twelve Cardinals were then created,  
That solemn Morn that I received the Rose;  
And I will tell thee, half those Fools are marrow,  
That bought so high, shall veil their Caps for ever.  Mach. 
He mends apace; 'tis but another shrug,  
And then this Love, this Ague Fit is lost.  Borg. 
I swear— I'll to the Wars, and ne'er return  
To Rome, till I have braved this haughty Frenchman,  
That menaced so of late.  Mach. 
Why, this is Borgia.  
Come, come, you must not droop; look up, my Lord;  
Methinks I see you Crowned Rome's Emperor.  
No doubt, Sir, but among your glorious Plunder,  
You'll find some Woman—  Borg. 
Ha! no more, I charge thee.  
I swear I was at ease, and had forgot her:  
Why didst thou wake me then, to turn me wild,  
And rouse the slumbering Orders of my Soul?  
To my charmed Ears no more of Woman tell;  
Name not a Woman, and I shall be well.  
Like a poor Lunatic that makes his moan,  
And for a time beguiles the lookers on;  
He reasons well, his eyes their wildness lose,  
And vows the Keepers his wronged sense abuse:  
But if you hit the cause that hurt his Brain,  
Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his Chain,  
His Eye balls roll, and he is mad again. Exeunt.  Enter one Executioner with a dark Lantern, followed by another at a distance; they part often, look up and down, and hem to the rest. 1. Exec. 
The Coast is clear, and all the Guards are gone.  2. Exec. 
Hark, hark; what noise was that?  1. Exec. 
The Clock struck three.  2. Exec. 
See, the Moon shines; haste, and call our Fellows●  
Him to 'em; that's the Sign.  1. Exec. 
They come, they come.  Enter Four Executioners more; Two carry the Body of the Duke of Gandia in a Chair; the others follow, and scout behind. 3. Exec. 
So— set him down, and let 'em bear their part,  
For I am weary—  4. Exec. 
And so am I: I sweat; but 'tis with fear.  1. Exec. 
Make no more words on't; take him from the Chair.  2. Exec. 
A ghastly sight. The Weight about his Neck  
Has bent him almost double: I'll not touch him—  3. Exec. 
Cowardly Villain— Come, my Princely Master,  
The Fishes want their Break fast.  4. Exec. 
Join all together,  
And hurl him o'er this Wall into the Tiber.  2. Exec. 
Fly, fly— I hear a noise: The Guards, the Guards.  3. Exec. 
He lies, he lies; the Coinage of his fears;  
Once more, I say, join all your hands together.  
Remember the Reward, two thousand Crowns  
A Man: but for that Milksop, I suspect him;  
Therefore let's watch our time, decoy him on;  
And when this business is a little o'er,  
Strangle him in some Corner, lest he prate  
Of what is done. Now, now's the time, away—  They join all together; take him by the Legs and Arms, and hurl him over the Wall into the Tiber: A noise is heard, as of a Body falling into the Water— They look about once more, then start, take up the Chair, and run out— Scene shuts.  

SCENE II.  Enter Borgia and Machiavelli. Mach. 
Though Orsini, the Vitelli, and Colonni  
Are hushed; the Spaniard, and the French, no doubt,  
Would buy your Friendship at the dearest rate.  
Nay, more; I yield you Lord of Tuscany,  
And Master of such Forces as might march  
Against the haughtiest Power of Christendom:  
But Prince, forgive me, if I am too free,  
Do you remember whence this glory comes,  
And how this Golden Fortune is derived?  
The Pope— from that rich scource these Currents roll;  
And when another Pope succeeds, who knows  
But he may strip you bare of all those Honours  
Which this has given, and turn you to the World.  Borg. 
No, Machiavel, I am prepared for Fate,  
Though Alexander should expire to night.  
First, who is left of all the Families  
I have defaced, if a new Pope were made,  
To say I wronged 'em; none that I remember:  
'Tis not my way to lop; for then the Tree  
May sprout again; but root him, and he lies  
Never to bluster. But I will tell thee,  
Quite to unhinge that hold, no Pope shall e'er  
Be fixed in Rome, while Borgia is alive,  
But by this hand. The Gentry are all mine  
For ever, gained by Presents and Preferments:  
The Spanish Cardinals are mine devoted,  
With all that are conspicuous in the College:  
What then can Fortune do? I laugh at her;  
Spurn all those Shrines and Altars, which weak Wretches,  
Hero's and Fools, devoutly raise to gain her.  Mach. 
Yet hear me, Borgia, hear the oddest story  
That ever Melancholy told the World:  
This morning, being early in the Vatican,  
Far in the Library, at the upper end,  
Methought I saw two stately Humane Forms,  
Lying at a distance, wrapped in Linen Shrouds:  
Approaching nearer with a steadfast gaze,  
As now I look upon the Prince I honour,  
I saw the Figure of the Pope your Father  
Stretched on the Floor, pale, ghastly, cold and dead;  
And by his side, with horror upon horror,  
And double tremblings, saw my Lord, yourself,  
My very Caesar, like a newlaid Ghost,  
Swollen black, and bloated, while your enclosed eyes,  
All bloodshot, fixed on mine their dreadful beams.  Borg. 
Fumes, fumes, my Machiavelli, the effects of phlegm;  
Gross humours, fumes, which from thy thicker blood  
Stream up like Vapours from a foggy pool.  Mach. 
I am apt to think it but a leap of fancy,  
A jading of the mind, which, quite tired out  
With thoughts eternal toil, strikes from the road:  
Yet, as you prize your life, let me conjure you,  
Beware Ascanio, his long red Coat  
Hides a most mortal and inveterate Foe.  Borg. 
I know him Machiavelli, and soothe him on,  
As he would me. But Borgia does assure thee,  
That he, that scarlet poisonous Luxury,  
With his adherent Brothers, shall this night,  
Even in the midst of Kisses, Oaths, Embraces,  
Burst in the Vatican, and shed their Venom.  Mach. 
Your Father is a Master of his breast,  
The occasion gives new life, fresh vigour to him,  
Even at the very verge of bottomless death,  
He stands and smiles as careless and undaunted,  
As wanton swimmers on a River's brink  
Laugh at the rapid stream.  Borg. 
Therefore my Friend,  
Let us despise this Torrent of the World,  
Fortune, I mean, and dam her up with Fences,  
Banks, Bulworks, all the Fortresses, which Virtue,  
Resolved and maned like ours, can raise against her;  
That if she does o'erflow, she may at least  
Being but half Ruin to our great designs:  
That being at last ashamed of her own weakness,  
Like a low●bated flood, she may retire  
To her own bounds, and we with pride o're-look her.  Enter Don Michael, and the Butler. D. Mich. 
My Lord, your Servant waits as you appointed.  Borg. 
Are my Provisions come?  Butl. 
They are, my Lord.  Borg. 
Do you remember what I gave in charge?  Butl. 
That none should touch the gilded flask of wine.  Borg. 
I charge thee none, but such as I shall order.  
Don Michael, is my Father yet arrived?  D. Mich. 
He is, my Lord, and gone.  Borg. 
Say'st thou?  D. Mich. 
When first he entered, quite o'recome with heat;  
Thirsting, and faint with the hot seasons rage,  
He called for wine, and tho dissuaded from it,  
Drank largely, mingled with the Cardinals,  
And walked, and laughed, played with Columbus Boys,  
Heard their rude Music, and beheld 'em dance;  
When on a sudden starting up, he asked  
For you, my Lord; bowed, as his Custom is,  
With deep humility to all, desired 'em  
To sit, and so went out— but with a promise  
Of a most quick return—  Scene draws, and discovers a Chair of state under a Canopy, a large Table, with a rich Banquet— and many Candles on't. Enter Ascanio, Adrian, Enna, Ange, two Cardinals more. Ascan. 
My Lord, the Vatican Society,  
Who were obliged to sacrifice this night,  
As every looser Genius should inspire,  
To Air, and Wine, and warmer Conversation,  
Grow dull for want of you: His Holiness  
Himselfs retired— Therefore let us entreat you—  Borg. 
O my good Lord Ascanio, I am born.  
To be at your Command— My Lords, I wait you.  
Sirrah, remember him— I charge thee fill  
Of the gilt Flask to him—  Butl. 
My Lord— I shall.  
This Wine is sure the richest of the World,  
Because he charges me so strictly of it:  
That Cardinal's a Friend, and he must taste it.  Ascan. 
Lord Machiavelli, you have been charitable, I thank your love;  
Nay, with my life, I thank you—  Mach. 
My Lord— I wish you would explain yourself.  Ascan. 
It needs not, Sir, for this the meanest know,  
The Rabble, base Mechanics talk of murders:  
I saw a sweating Weaver in his Shirt,  
Ran puffing with his Shuttle in his hand,  
To ask a Neighbour Butcher of the news,  
Who with his Knife in's mouth abruptly tells  
Orsino's death; yes, and his Daughters too:  
Then comes a Tailor with his hair tucked back,  
Behind his ears, on tiptoes, in his Slippers,  
And cries in haste, the Duke of Gandia's murdered:  
Then spits upon his Iron, cast up his eyes,  
Threads through the company, as 'twere a Needle,  
And vanishes; no more, my Lord, I thank you.  
Nay, by my life, but for the Company,  
I'd kiss the bottom of your Robe; your Lordships ever:  
Your Highness' servant: My Lord, let's drink a Health to  
His Holiness— But in my heart, I say, the Devil take him.  Borg. 
Lord Machiavelli, you are my Guest to night:  
Were the Society made up of Gods,  
As sure it is of Saints, Spirits above  
The common Elevation; yet this man,  
I say, my Lords, this Human Prodigy,  
Would not be set to wait, but fixed among 'em,  
To dazzle with the brightest being here.  
Wine there!— My Lord Ascanio Sforza,  
Health to all here, and to the general joy— Drinks.  Ascan. 
Fine work, my Lords, fine work, I say, look to't,  
The Duke of Gandia's murdered.  Adrian. 
'Tis the common rumour.  Ennn. 
The Pope this morning in the Consistory,  
When first he heard the News, leapt from his Throne.  
Crossing his Breast, and looking up to Heaven,  
He vowed hereafter most severe amendment,  
As from this time to fast for Forty hours.  
And all his life wear next his humble flesh,  
A Shirt of Hair.  Ascan. 
A Shirt of Hair, bating Lucretian nights:  
She'll not endure't; look you, her skin's too tender:  
A Shirt of Hair, a very prickling Penance.  
Now, by my Holidame, mere Lechery:  
Don't I know him? Slave, more Wine, I say;  
Fill up my Glass: Come, come, my Lords, 'tis time  
To look about us, and reform the Church— Drinks.  
Prune it, I say; or else like Babylon,  
Like Babel's Whore, 'twill run up all to seed.  
Hark you, Lord Ange.  Ang. 
My Lord.  Ascan. 
My Lord of Enna too; we four are  
As one Soul: This Pope's a very lewd  
And wicked Head;— he's never well, but  
When he's plotting Murders. Why, look you, Sirs,  
If a Man cannot speak his mind of  
State Affairs,— but he must straight be  
Dogged by Hellhounds, Bloodsuckers, Decoyers,  
Rascals, that watch to throttle him in some  
By-corner, then quoit him like a Cat into  
The River, 'tis very fine: Now, by my Holidame,  
It may be our turn next— by the Mass it may;  
I say, my Lord, it may— The Indian Boys dance.  
Ha, my Lords, how do you  
Like the motion? Very pretty, very fine.  
O brave Columbus! More Wine there; a bigger  
Glass: I'll drink Columbus' health— Now, by my  
Holidame, I am frolicksome, and will be active.  
Ha, my Lords, ha, I learned at Paris, when I was  
A Stripling; yet these are pretty Children, very fine Boys.—  Enter D. Michael. D. Mich. 
My Lord, I grieve to bring you Mortal News,  
Which were I silent, yet in some few Minutes  
Must wound your Ears; your Father's dead.  Borg. 
Hence, Raven,  
Thou Boder of the blackest deed of Death!  
My Lords, this Villain says the Pope's dead;  
Went he not hence but now, sound, firm, and healthful,  
And promised to return?  D. Mich. 
My Lord, he did:  
But 'tis most certain, ere he went from hence,  
As all our best Physicians give an Oath,  
He was by some pernicious Traitor poisoned.  Borg. 
O Machiavel, where is our forecast now?  
My heart misgives me, and my bosom's hot.  
Who ministered? who gave my Father Wine?  D. Mich. 
Your Servant: for when first your Father entered,  
His own Provisions were not come.  Borg. 
O Confusion!  
Answer me, Villain! ha! filled you his Wine?  Butl. 
My Lord, I did.  Borg. 
What, from the gilded Flask? why dost thou tremble?  
Horror consume thee, gnaw thee, burn thy Entrails,  
Wilt thou not speak?  Butl. 
My Lord, by your strict Charge,  
That none should taste those Flasks but whom you ordered,  
I judged the Wine most Excellent, and gave  
Part of it to your Father—  Borg. 
O damned Dolt!  
Cursed, senseless Dog! Now, Machiavelli, where are we?  
Ha! by the Furies that invade my Breast,  
And crumble all my Bowels into dust,  
I am caught myself! Speak, tell me, horrid Villain,  
Or I will have thee dragged in Thousand Pieces;  
Torn by mad Horses like the flesh of Dogs:  
Thou gav'st me Wine too from the gilded Flasks! ha, Traitors  
Come, double damn thyself, and swear thou didst not.  Butl. 
My Lord— I must confess I gave the same  
To you, that was directed for your Friend,  
My Lord Ascanio.  Borg. 
Take thy reward then, which the Devil thou pourest  
Into my Breast, thus gives thee back again!  
O Machiavel, O do not look upon me;  
I am below thy scorn, thus vile caught,  
O basely, basely sold by my own wild.  Ascan. 
Oh, oh, oh— I have my share on't too, the Devil  
Thank you— Fire, fire, fire! oh my Guts— brimstone  
And fire— haste there— fly for Antidotes.  Borg. 
None, none on Earth,  
I tell thee, Priest, can save thy rotten Carcase;  
No Cardinal, lie down, lie down, and roar,  
Think on thy Scarlet sins, and fear Damnation.  Ascan. 
Legions of Furies here, Hell is broke loose,  
And all the Devils are quartered in my Bowels.  
Run Slave! and for a last revenge, produce  
His mangled Bastard— that's some pleasure yet.  Borg. 
O Machiavelli, thy hand, I am all flames;  
Yet thou shalt hear no noise: sit down, my Friend,  
Upon the Earth— for there's my Mansion now,  
Dust, and no more— and yet methinks 'twas hard  
That this Elaborate Scheme of mighty Man,  
This Parchment, where the Lines of Roman greatness  
By thee so well were drawn, should by the hand  
Of scribbling Chance be blotted thus for ever.  Ascan. 
I burn, I burn, I toast, I roast, and my Guts fry,  
They blaze, they snap, they bounce like Squibs  
And Crackers: I am all fire—  Mach. 
Is't possible that you can bear the pangs  
Of violent poison, thus unmoved?  Borg. 
'Tis little  
To one resolved: No, let the Coward Statesman,  
Women, and Priests, whine at the thoughts of death;  
For me, whose mind was ever fierce and active,  
Death is unwelcome, only for this reason,  
Because 'tis an Eternal laziness—  Enter Alonzo, leading in Seraphino, with his Eyes out, and Face cut. Mach. 
I must confess my mind, by what I saw  
This morning, and by what has happened since,  
Is deeply shockt, even from her own Foundation.  Ascan. 
Bear the blind Bastard to his Father, go,  
And bid him laugh— oh!  Mach. 
Horror! new horror!  
My Lord, your Son, by that most bloody Cardinal,  
Mangled and blind.  Borg. 
Why dost thou wonder at it?  
'Tis all the work of Chance, and trick of Fortune?  
Yet this methinks is horrible indeed.  
Come hither Boy—  Serap. 
Alas, I hear your Voice,  
And cannot find the way;  
But am like one benighted in a Wood  Borg. 
A Wood indeed;  
But oh the Brambles there have used thee vilely.  Serap. 
O Father, you are armed, and have a Sword;  
Will you not, for your Seraphino's sake,  
Cut down those Thorns that pricked out both my eyes?  
I know you will; for you were always kind  
And tender of me: ofttimes have you held me  
Fast in your Arms, and smiled, and played with me;  
Though you're a Prince, a very busy Prince,  
And called me little Eyes, little indeed,  
For now they're out, and all my Face is cut:  
Nay, they have starved me too.  Borg. 
Death and horror!  Serap. 
Why do you press me thus between your Arms,  
As if you loved me still? I am sure you cannot.  
Pray let me hide my Face within your Bosom;  
For if you look upon me I shall fright you.  
O! I've a pain here just about my heart!  
When, you my Lord, a long time after me  
Shall die, will you not lay my little Bones  
By yours? Alas! my pain increases— Oh— Dies  Borg. 
Revenge thee, Boy! I ask but that from Fate:  
And see 'tis given me: Through a thousand Wounds,  
Thus, horrid Priest! purge out thy lustful blood, Stabs Asc●●.  
And Vomit thy black Soul—  Ascan. 
Oh! Devil! Devil! Devil— Di●s●  Borg. 
No, Machiavelli, 'tis now fit time to rave;  
For I am now enraged to that degree,  
That I will live even in despite of Fortune,  
Stars! Fates! and all the Juggles of a Heaven.  
Hence, bear me, Slaves, and plunge me into Tiber,  
Deep as I sunk the Duke of Gandia down!  
Till I have quenched this Hell within my bowels;  
Then sl●y me an Oxhide, and swadle me,  
Like Hercules in the Nemean-skin.  
Till all my poisoned flesh like bark pill● off,  
And my bare Trunk stands every brushing wind!  Enna. 
Where are our Guards? My Lords, I judge it fit  
That Machiavelli and Borgia should be seized.  Borg. 
Seize me! what saucy Priest durst start that motion?  
Am I not Tyrant here? The Lord of Rome?  
Does not France dread my Frown? and Spain adore me?  
Who then dares talk of seizing me? what, he?  
This wag tail Priest, with the black picked Beard,  
That scowrs the Country round for freckled Wenches●  
Or was it you my Lord of Enna? Ha!  
Death, where's my Majesty, o● veil your Caps,  
Or I will trample you beneath my Feet?  
You, Ange! that could prostitute your Sister  
To gain a Hat? lie there Lord of St. Peter:  
You Cardinal ad Vincula, you pack of Hellhounds,  
That trace me by the blood. On, on I say,  
On to the brink of Hell: Thence plunge together,  
Where, on his Throne, behold the Master Devil  
With a great pair of glowing Horns red hot  
To gore you for your lives incontinence,  
You Ravishers, you Virgin pioneers,  
You Cuckold-makers of the forked World.  Ange. 
Where are your Guards?  Borg. 
Hark, I hear 'em coming:  
Or is it Dooms day? Ha— by Hell it is:  
And see, the heavens', and Earth, and Air are all  
On fire: the very Seas, like Moulten-glass,  
Rowl their bright Waves, and from the smoky deep  
Cast up the glaring Dead: The Trumpet sounds,  
And the swift Angels skim about the Globe  
To summon all Mankind. Rome, Rome is called.  
Work, work for Hell. Hoa, Satan! Belzebub!  
Belial, and Baal— Whence this Thunderclap?  
They've blown us up with Wildfire in the Air;  
And look how the balled friars in Russet-gowns  
Croak like old Vultures, how the fluttering jesuits,  
In black and white, chatter about the heavens'!  
Capuchins Monks, with the whole Tribe of Knaves!  
Then let me burst my spleen! Look how the Tassels,  
Caps, H●ts and Cardinals Coats, and Cowls and Hoods  
Are tossed about— the sport, the sport of Winds—  
Indulgences, Dispenses, Pardons, Bulls, see yonder!  
Priest, they sly— they're whirled aloft. They fly,  
They fly o'er the backside o'th' world,  
Into a Limbo large, and broad, since called the Paradise  
Of Fools.  Enna. 
'Tis just we give him way! this fit of rage  
Has wasted him to Death, see he breathes short,  
The Taper's spent, and this is his last Blaze.  Borg. 
Ha! Breath I short? Prelate, thou liest: my pulse  
Beats with a constant fire, and sprightly motion;  
The strings of my tough Heart as strong as ever:  
No— I will live; in spite of Fate I'll live  
To be the scourge of Rome: I'll live to act  
New mischiefs, and create new wicked Popes,  
To poniard Heretic Princes that refuse  
To lay their Necks beneath the holy Slipper.  
Murder successively two Kings of France;  
Britain attempt, though her most watchful Angel  
Saves the Loved Monarch of that happy Isle,  
And turns upon ourselves the plotted Wound,  
That sinks me to the Earth: yet still we'll on,  
And hatch new deeds of darkness: O Hell, and Furies!  
Why should we not, since the great Head himself  
Will back my Plots, join me in blood and horror,  
And after give me Bond for my Salvation:  
I swear I will— I'll have it— nay, Sir, you shall—  
Or I will thunder to your Holiness:  
But hark he whispers, what a little Gold—  
With all my heart: thus Devils buy souls for trash—  
I'll fee your itching palm for Absolution.  
Gold for my pardon, hay— 'tis sealed and given!  
And for a Ducat thus I purchase Heaven— Dies.  Maeh. 
The mighty soul there forced her furious passage,  
And plunges now in deep Eternity—  
I see, my Lords, you have resolved to guard me,  
And I submit to strict Examination:  
By you to be acquitted or condemned?  
Yet this I must avow before you all,  
Though you should cast me to the Inquisition,  
Skilled as I am in all Affairs of Earth,  
Known both to Popes and Kings, and often honoured  
With Cabinet Councils of Imperial Heads;  
I here resolve on this, as my last Judgement;  
No Power is safe, nor no Religion good,  
Whose Principles of growth are laid in Blood.    

EPILOGUE.  
WELL, then be you his judges; what pretence  
Made them roar out, this Play would give offence?  
Had he the Pope's Effigies meant to burn,  
And kept for sport his Ashes in an Urn?  
To try if Relics would perform at Home  
But half those Miracles they do at Rome:  
More could not have been said, nor more been done,  
To damn this Play about the Court and Town;  
Not if he had shown their Philters, Charms and Rage,  
Nay conjur'd up Pope Joan to please the Age,  
And had her Breeches searched upon the Stage.  
First, than he brings a scandal on the Gown●  
And makes a Priest both Lecher and Buffoon:  
Why, was no Fool, yet ever made a Flamen,  
But dullness quite entailed upon the Lay men;  
Or was it ever heard in Rome before,  
That any Priest was question'd for his Whore?  
Yet more, the horrid Chair, the Mid night show—  
He says 'twas done two hundred Years ago:  
He only points their ways of murdering then;  
If you must damn, spare the Historian's Pen,  
And damn those Rogues that act 'em o'er again.  
But Dominicks, Franciscans, Hermits, Friars,  
Shall breed no more a Race of Zealous Liars;  
Villains, who for Religion's Propagation,  
Come here disguised in every mean Vocation,  
And sit in Stalls to spy upon the Nation.  
Old Emissaries shall their Trade forbear,  
Spread no more Savoy Relics, Bones and Hair,  
Shall sell no more like Baubles in a Fair:  
Monks under ground shall cease to earth like Moles,  
And Father Lewis leave his lurking-holes;  
Get no more Thirty Pounds for a blind Story,  
Of ficeing a Welsh Soul from Purgatory.  
jesuits in Rome shall quite forswear their Function,  
And not for Gold give Whores the Extreme Unction:  
High English Whores, that have all Vices past,  
Shall cease to turn true Catholics at last,  
When Poets write, though by exactest Rules,  
And are not judged by Knaves, and damned by Fools.  
FINIS.