_Mal._[377] Farewell. Lean thoughtfulness, a sallow meditation, Suck thy veins dry, distemperance rob thy sleep! The heart's disquiet is revenge most deep: He that gets blood, the life of flesh but spills, But he that breaks heart's peace, the dear soul kills. 200 Well, this disguise doth yet afford me that Which kings do seldom hear, or great men use,-- Free speech: and though my state's usurp'd, Yet this affected strain gives me a tongue As fetterless as in an emperor's. I may speak foolishly, ay, knavishly, Always carelessly, yet no one thinks it fashion To poise my breath; for he that laughs and strikes Is lightly felt, or seldom struck again. Duke, I'll torment thee now; my just revenge 210 From thee than crown a richer gem shall part: Beneath God, naught's so dear as a calm heart. _Re-enter_ CELSO. _Celso._ My honour'd lord,-- _Mal._ Peace, speak low, peace! O Celso, constant lord, (Thou to whose faith I only rest discover'd, Thou, one of full ten millions of men, That lovest virtue only for itself; Thou in whose hands old Ops may put her soul) Behold forever-banish'd Altofront, This Genoa's last year's duke. O truly noble! 220 I wanted those old instruments of state, Dissemblance and suspect: I could not time it, Celso; My throne stood like a point midst[378] of a circle, To all of equal nearness; bore with none; Rein'd all alike; so slept in fearless virtue, Suspectless, too suspectless; till the crowd, (Still lickorous of untried novelties) Impatient with severer government Made strong with Florence, banish'd Altofront. _Celso._ Strong with Florence! ay, thence your mischief rose; 230 For when the daughter of the Florentine Was match'd once with this Pietro, now duke, No stratagem of state untried was left, Till you of all---- _Mal._ Of all was quite bereft: Alas, Maria too close prisonèd, My true-faith'd duchess, i' the citadel! _Celso._ I'll still adhere: let's mutiny and die. _Mal._ O, no,[379] climb not a falling tower, Celso; 'Tis well held desperation, no zeal, Hopeless to strive with fate: peace; temporise. 240 Hope, hope, that ne'er forsak'st the wretched'st man, Yet bidd'st me live, and lurk in this disguise! What, play I well the free-breath'd discontent? Why, man, we are all philosophical monarchs Or natural fools. Celso, the court's a-fire; The duchess' sheets will smoke for't ere't be long: Impure Mendoza, that sharp-nos'd lord, that made The cursèd match link'd Genoa with Florence, Now broad-horns the duke, which he now knows. Discord to malcontents is very manna: 250 When the ranks are burst, then scuffle, Altofront. _Celso._ Ay, but durst---- _Mal._ 'Tis gone; 'tis swallow'd like a mineral: Some way 'twill work; pheut, I'll not shrink: He's resolute who can no lower sink.