Pietro: A mischief fill thy throat, thou...

Pietro: A mischief fill thy throat, thou foul-jaw’d slave! Say thy prayers.

Men: I ha’ forgot ’em.

Pietro: Thou shalt die.

Men: So shalt thou. I am heart-mad.

Pietro: I am horn-mad.

Men: Extreme mad.

Pietro: Monstrously mad.

Men: Why?   

Pietro: Why! thou, thou hast dishonoured my bed.

Men: I! Come, come, sit; here’s my bare heart to thee,

As steady as is the centre to this glorious world:

And yet, hark, thou art a cornuto,—but by me?

Pietro: Yes, slave, by thee.

Men: Do not, do not with tart and spleenful breath

Lose him can lose thee. I offend my duke!

Bear record, O ye dumb and raw-air’d nights,

How vigilant my sleepless eyes have been   

To watch the traitor! record, thou spirit of truth,

With what debasement I ha’ thrown myself

To under offices, only to learn

The truth, the party, time, the means, the place,

By whom, and when, and where thou wert disgrac’d!

And am I paid with slave? hath my intrusion

To places private and prohibited,

Only to observe the closer passages,

Heaven knows with vows of revelation,

Made me suspected, made me deem’d a villain?   

What rogue hath wrong’d us?

Pietro: Mendoza, I may err.

Men: Err! ’tis too mild a name: but err and err,

Run giddy with suspect, ’fore through me thou know

That which most creatures, save thyself, do know:

Nay, since my service hath so loath’d reject,

’Fore I’ll reveal, shalt find them clipt together.

Pietro: Mendoza, thou knowest I am a most plain-breasted man.

Men: The fitter to make a cornuto: would your brows were most plain too!   

Pietro: Tell me: indeed, I heard thee rail—

Men: At women, true: why, what cold phlegm could choose,

Knowing a lord so honest, virtuous,

So boundless loving, bounteous, fair-shap’d, sweet,

To be contemn’d, abus’d, defam’d, made cuckold?

Heart! I hate all women for’t: sweet sheets, wax lights, antic bedposts, cambric smocks, villainous curtains, arras pictures, oiled hinges, and all the tongue-tied lascivious witnesses of great creatures’ wantonness,—what salvation can you expect?   

Pietro: Wilt thou tell me?

Men: Why, you may find it yourself; observe, observe.

Pietro: I ha’ not the patience: wilt thou deserve me, tell, give it.

Men: Take’t: why, Ferneze is the man, Ferneze: I’ll prove’t; this night you shall take him in your sheets: will’t serve?

Pietro: It will; my bosom’s in some peace: till night—

Men: What?

Pietro: Farewell.

Men: God! how weak a lord are you!   

Why, do you think there is no more but so?

Pietro: Why!

Men: Nay, then, will I presume to counsel you:

It should be thus. You with some guard upon the sudden

Break into the princess’ chamber: I stay behind,

Without the door, through which he needs must pass:

Ferneze flies; let him: to me he comes; he’s kill’d

By me, observe, by me: you follow: I rail,

And seem to save the body. Duchess comes,

On whom (respecting her advancèd birth,   

And your fair nature), I know, nay, I do know,

No violence must be us’d; she comes: I storm,

I praise, excuse Ferneze, and still maintain

The duchess’ honour: she for this loves me.

I honour you; shall know her soul, you mine:

Then naught shall she contrive in vengeance

(As women are most thoughtful in revenge)

Of her Ferneze, but you shall sooner know’t

Than she can think’t. Thus shall his death come sure,

Your duchess brain-caught: so your life secure.   

Pietro: It is too well: my bosom and my heart

When nothing helps, cut off the rotten part.

[Exit.]

Men: Who cannot feign friendship can ne’er produce the effects of hatred. Honest fool duke! subtle lascivious duchess! silly novice Ferneze! I do laugh at ye. My brain is in labour till it produce mischief, and I feel sudden throes, proofs sensible, the issue is at hand. As bears shape young, so I’ll form my device, Which grown proves horrid: vengeance makes men wise.

John Marston, The Malcontent, Renaissance Drama: An Anthology of Plays and Entertainments, Blackwell Publishing, 2005, p.431-432.