The White Devil by John Webster

Author:John Webster [Webster, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MOST Publishing
Published: 2004-07-16T04:00:00+00:00

Fran. Murderers?

Fold down the leaf, I pray;

Good my lord, let me borrow this strange doctrine.

Mont. Pray, use 't, my lord.

Fran. I do assure your lordship,

You are a worthy member of the State,

And have done infinite good in your discovery

Of these offenders.

Mont. Somewhat, sir.

Fran. O God!

Better than tribute of wolves paid in England;

'Twill hang their skins o' th' hedge.

Mont. I must make bold

To leave your lordship.

Fran. Dearly, sir, I thank you:

If any ask for me at court, report

You have left me in the company of knaves.

[Exit Monticelso.

I gather now by this, some cunning fellow

That 's my lord's officer, and that lately skipp'd

From a clerk's desk up to a justice' chair,

Hath made this knavish summons, and intends,

As th' Irish rebels wont were to sell heads,

So to make prize of these. And thus it happens:

Your poor rogues pay for 't, which have not the means

To present bribe in fist; the rest o' th' band

Are razed out of the knaves' record; or else

My lord he winks at them with easy will;

His man grows rich, the knaves are the knaves still.

But to the use I 'll make of it; it shall serve

To point me out a list of murderers,

Agents for my villany. Did I want

Ten leash of courtesans, it would furnish me;

Nay, laundress three armies. That in so little paper

Should lie th' undoing of so many men!

'Tis not so big as twenty declarations.

See the corrupted use some make of books:

Divinity, wrested by some factious blood,

Draws swords, swells battles, and o'erthrows all good.

To fashion my revenge more seriously,

Let me remember my dear sister's face:

Call for her picture? no, I 'll close mine eyes,

And in a melancholic thought I 'll frame

[Enter Isabella's Ghost.

Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha' 't—how strong

Imagination works! how she can frame

Things which are not! methinks she stands afore me,

And by the quick idea of my mind,

Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture.

Thought, as a subtle juggler, makes us deem

Things supernatural, which have cause

Common as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy.

How cam'st thou by thy death?—how idle am I

To question mine own idleness!—did ever

Man dream awake till now?—remove this object;

Out of my brain with 't: what have I to do

With tombs, or death-beds, funerals, or tears,

That have to meditate upon revenge? [Exit Ghost.

So, now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.

Statesmen think often they see stranger sights

Than madmen. Come, to this weighty business.

My tragedy must have some idle mirth in 't,

Else it will never pass. I am in love,

In love with Corombona; and my suit

Thus halts to her in verse.— [He writes.

I have done it rarely: Oh, the fate of princes!

I am so us'd to frequent flattery,

That, being alone, I now flatter myself:

But it will serve; 'tis seal'd. [Enter servant.] Bear this

To the House of Convertites, and watch your leisure

To give it to the hands of Corombona,

Or to the Matron, when some followers

Of Brachiano may be by. Away! [Exit Servant.

He that deals all by strength, his wit is shallow;

When a man's head goes through, each limb will follow.

The engine for my business, bold

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