_Sago._ Day was my night, and night must be my day; The sun shined on my pleasure with my love, And darkness must lend aid to my revenge. The stage of heaven is hung with solemn black, A time best fitting to act tragedies. The night's great queen, that maiden governess, Musters black clouds to hide her from the world, Afraid to look on my bold enterprise. Cursed creatures, messengers of death, possess the world; Night-ravens, screetch-owls, and voice-killing[288] mandrakes, The ghosts[289] of misers, that imprison'd gold 11 Within the harmless[290] bowels of the earth, Are night's companions. Bawds to lust and murder, Be all propitious to my act of justice Upon the scandalisers of her fame, That is the lifeblood of deliciousness, Deem'd[291] Isabella, Cupid's treasurer, Whose soul contains the richest gifts of love: Her beauty from my heart fear doth expel: They relish pleasure best that dread not hell! 20 Who's there? _Enter_ Count MASSINO.[292] _Mass._ A friend to thee, if thy intents Be just and honourable. _Sago._ Count Massino,[292] speak, I am the watch. _Mass._ My name is Massino:[292] dost thou know me? _Sago._ Yes, slanderous villain, nurse of obloquy, Whose poison'd breath has speckled clear-faced[293] virtue, And made a leper of Isabella's fame, That is as spotless as the eye of heaven! Thy vital thread's a-cutting; start not, slave; He's sure of sudden death, Heaven cannot save! 30 _Mass._ Art not Gniaca turn'd apostata?[294] Has pleasure once again turned thee again A devil? art not Gniaca--hah? _Sago._ O that I were, then would I stab myself, For he is mark'd for death as well as thee! I am Don Sago, thy mortal enemy, Whose hand love makes thy executioner! _Mass._ I know thee, valiant Spaniard, and to thee Murder's more hateful than is sacrilege. Thy actions ever have been honourable. 40 _Sago._ And this the crown of all my actions, To purge the earth of such a man turn'd monster! Mass. I never wrong'd thee, Spaniard--did I? speak: [_Tell_[295] _him all the plot._ I'll make thee satisfaction like a soldier, A true Italian, and a gentleman. Thy rage is treachery without a cause. _Sago._ My rage is just, and thy heart blood shall know, He that wrongs beauty, must be honour's foe. Isabel's quarrel arms the Spaniard's spirit! _Mass._ Murder should keep with baseness, not with merit. 50 I'll answer thee to-morrow, by my soul, And clear thy doubts, or satisfy thy will. _Sago._ He's war's best scholar can with safety kill. Take this to-night; now meet with me to-morrow. [_Shoots._ MASSINO _falls dead_. I come, Isabella; half thy hate is dead; Valour makes murder light, which fear makes lead.[296]