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| Character | Duke Bracciano?Isabella??? | |
|---|---|---|
| Scene type / Who are | Married | |
| Type | Dramatic | |
| Year | 1612 | |
| Period | 17th Century | |
| Genre | Romance, Tragedy, Drama | |
| Description | Duke Bracciano rejects his wife Isabella | |
| Location | ACT II, Scene 1 | |
Summary
The play is based on the life of Vittoria Accoramboni who in the play is named Vittoria Corombona, the daughter of a poor but noble family from Venice and wife to Camillo. The Duke of Brachiano, the man in the scene below, falls in love with Vittoria even if he is already married to Isabella of the powerful Medici family. Vittoria's ambitious brother, Flamineo, who works for the Duke, plots to have his sister marry the Duke. When Isabella comes back to Rome, Flamineo and the Duke conspire together to kill her as well as Vittoria's husband Camillo. The rest of the play follows Lodovico, a Count in love with Isabella, and Isabella's brother Francisco as they plot revenge against Flamineo, Vittoria and the Duke.
In this scene Isabella has just come back to Rome, only to be coldly welcomed and then rejected by her husband, Duke Brachiano.
In this scene Isabella has just come back to Rome, only to be coldly welcomed and then rejected by her husband, Duke Brachiano.
Written by Administrator
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| Brach. You are in health, we see. Isab. And above health, To see my lord well. Brach. So: I wonder much What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome. Isab. Devotion, my lord. Brach. Devotion! Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin? Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleep will be the sounder. Brach. Take your chamber. Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry! Doth not my absence from you, now two months, Merit one kiss? Brach. I do not use to kiss: If that will dispossess your jealousy, I'll swear it to you. Isab. O, my loved lord, I do not come to chide: my jealousy! I am to learn what that Italian means. You are as welcome to these longing arms, As I to you a virgin. Brach. Oh, your breath! Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic, The plague is in them! Isab. You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected cassia, or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd. My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns Show in a helmet lovely; but on me, In such a peaceful interview, methinks They are too roughly knit. Brach. O dissemblance! Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt The trick of impudent baseness to complain Unto your kindred? Isab. Never, my dear lord. Brach. Must I be hunted out? or was 't your trick To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome, That must supply our discontinuance? Isab. Pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death Turn to your ancient pity, though not love. Brach. Because your brother is the corpulent duke, That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortly Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis, But it shall rest 'pon record! I scorn him Like a shav'd Polack: all his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe; he 's a discreet fellow, When he 's made up in his robes of state. Your brother, the great duke, because h' 'as galleys, And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat, (Now all the hellish furies take his soul!) First made this match: accursed be the priest That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue! Isab. Oh, too, too far you have curs'd! Brach. Your hand I 'll kiss; This is the latest ceremony of my love. Henceforth I 'll never lie with thee; by this, This wedding-ring, I 'll ne'er more lie with thee! And this divorce shall be as truly kept, As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well: Our sleeps are sever'd. Isab. Forbid it the sweet union Of all things blessed! why, the saints in heaven Will knit their brows at that. Brach. Let not thy love Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied With my repentance: let thy brother rage Beyond a horrid tempest, or sea-fight, My vow is fixed. Isab. O, my winding-sheet! Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord, let me hear once more, what I would not hear: Never? Brach. Never. Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy, As I upon a woeful widow'd bed Shall pray for you, if not to turn your eyes Upon your wretched wife and hopeful son, Yet that in time you 'll fix them upon heaven! Brach. No more; go, go, complain to the great duke. Isab. No, my dear lord; you shall have present witness How I 'll work peace between you. I will make Myself the author of your cursed vow; I have some cause to do it, you have none. Conceal it, I beseech you, for the weal Of both your dukedoms, that you wrought the means Of such a separation: let the fault Remain with my supposed jealousy, And think with what a piteous and rent heart I shall perform this sad ensuing part. |
