Webster The White Devil

1. Auflage 2019
ISBN: 978-3-7494-2821-2
Verlag: BoD - Books on Demand
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 108 Seiten

In publishing this tragedy, I do but challenge myself that liberty, which other men have taken before me; not that I affect praise by it, for, nos hæc novimus esse nihil, only since it was acted in so dull a time of winter, presented in so open and black a theatre, that it wanted (that which is the only grace and setting-out of a tragedy) a full and understanding auditory; and that since that time I have noted, most of the people that come to that playhouse resemble those ignorant asses (who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books), I present it to the general view with this confidence: Nec rhoncos metues maligniorum, Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Webster, John

Leseproben

ACT II
SCENE I Enter Francisco de Medicis, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived? Isab. Not yet, sir. Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind;
  If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's,
  I would set fire on 't were 't but to destroy
  The polecats that haunt to it—My sweet cousin!

Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse,
  And armour.

Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin.
  Marcello, see it fitted.

Marc. My lord, the duke is here. Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen. Isab. I do beseech you,
  Entreat him mildly, let not your rough tongue
  Set us at louder variance; all my wrongs
  Are freely pardon'd; and I do not doubt,
  As men to try the precious unicorn's horn
  Make of the powder a preservative circle,
  And in it put a spider, so these arms
  Shall charm his poison, force it to obeying,
  And keep him chaste from an infected straying.

Fran. I wish it may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineo
  enter.] Void the chamber.
  You are welcome; will you sit?—I pray, my lord,
  Be you my orator, my heart 's too full;
  I 'll second you anon.

Mont. Ere I begin,
  Let me entreat your grace forgo all passion,
  Which may be raised by my free discourse.

Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed. Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends,
  That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world
  With a free scepter in your able hand,
  And having to th' use of nature well applied
  High gifts of learning, should in your prime age
  Neglect your awful throne for the soft down
  Of an insatiate bed. O my lord,
  The drunkard after all his lavish cups
  Is dry, and then is sober; so at length,
  When you awake from this lascivious dream,
  Repentance then will follow, like the sting
  Plac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes
  When fortune blasteth but a petty flower
  Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth
  But one pearl from their scepter; but alas!
  When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame,
  All princely titles perish with their name.

Brach. You have said, my lord—— Mont. Enough to give you taste
  How far I am from flattering your greatness.

Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you?
  Do not like young hawks fetch a course about;
  Your game flies fair, and for you.

Fran. Do not fear it:
  I 'll answer you in your own hawking phrase.
  Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun
  Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease,
  Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize.
  You know Vittoria?

Brach. Yes. Fran. You shift your shirt there,
  When you retire from tennis?

Brach. Happily. Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune,
  Yet she wears cloth of tissue.

Brach. What of this?
  Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal,
  As part of her confession at next shrift,
  And know from whence it sails?

Fran. She is your strumpet—— Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath,
  And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine,
  All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers,
  Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates,
  Durst not supplant her.

Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder.
  Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given
  Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast
  In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee
  But one.

Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then. Fran. True:
  Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution,
  Shall ne'er do so by thee.

Brach. Spit thy poison. Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip
  At her own girdle. Look to 't, for our anger
  Is making thunderbolts.

Brach. Thunder! in faith,
  They are but crackers.

Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon. Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds,
  And gunpowder in thy nostrils.

Fran. Better that,
  Than change perfumes for plasters.

Brach. Pity on thee!
  'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd,
  Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee,
  Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.

Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further
  Without a milder limit.

Fran. Willingly. Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait
  A lion thus?

Mont. My lord! Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir. Fran. We send unto the duke for conference
  'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke
  Is not at home: we come ourself in person;
  Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear
  When Tiber to each prowling passenger
  Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord—
  'Bout moulting time I mean—we shall be certain
  To find you sure enough, and speak with you.

Brach. Ha! Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle.
  But to express the sonnet by natural reason,
                                                         [Enter Giovanni.
  When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.

Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion
  Shall end the difference between you both;
  Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords,
  What hopes you store in him; this is a casket
  For both your crowns, and should be held like dear.
  Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know
  It is a more direct and even way,
  To train to virtue those of princely blood,
  By examples than by precepts: if by examples,
  Whom should he rather strive to imitate
  Than his own father? be his pattern then,
  Leave him a stock of virtue that may last,
  Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast.

Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier? Giov. Give me a pike. Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin? Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord,
  Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me,
  Might not a child of good discretion
  Be leader to an army?

Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince
  Of good discretion might.

Giov. Say you so?
  Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general
  Should not endanger his own person oft;
  So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback,
  Like a Danske drummer,—Oh, 'tis excellent!—
  He need not fight! methinks his horse as well
  Might lead an army for him. If I live,
  I 'll charge the French foe in the very front
  Of all my troops, the foremost man.

Fran. What! what! Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow,
  But bid them follow me.

Brach. Forward...