128 ~ The Early English Drama: [Aueusr, 
Corombona almost exclusively, as that on which not only the whole 
interest of the action turns, but which connects and holds it together, 
and in some sort forms it into a consistent whole. The object of Florence 
and the conspirators is soon attained. They contrive a subtle poison, 
with which they sprinkle the helmet of Brachiano, just as he is arming 
himself to engage in a tournament ; and before the fight is over he rushes 
in and finds what has been done, and that death is upon him. There is 
an affluence of passion and of poetry in nearly all the remaining scenes 
of this play, which is prodigious. We must give a few extracts as we 
proceed. The whole of the death scene of Brachiano is full of rare and 
various beauty. The following are parts of it :— 
Brach. Tear off my beaver ! 
Flam. Are you hurt, my lord? 
Brach. O, my brain’s on fire ! 
Enter Armourer. 
‘The helmet’s poisoned. 
Armour. My lord, upon my soul 
Brach. Away with him to torture! 
There are some great ones that have hand in this, 
And near about me. 
Enter VITTORIA. 
Vit. O, my lov'd lord poisoned ! 
* * * * * * 
Enter Two Physicians. 
Brach. O, I am gone already! The infection 
Flies to the brain and heart. O, thou strong heart, 
There’s such a covenant ‘tween the world and it, 
They’re loath to break! 
Gio. O, my most lov’d father ! 
Brach. Remove the boy away: 
Where’s this good woman? Had I infinite worlds, 
They were too little for thee. Must I leave thee ? 
What say ye, screech-owls! is the venom mortal ? 
Phy. Most deadly. 
Brach. Most corrupted, politic hangman ! 
You kill without book ; but your art to save 
Fails you as oft as great men’s needy friends. 
I, that have given life to offending slaves 
And wretched murderers, have I not power 
To lengthen out mine own one twelvemonth ? 
Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee. (To Vittoria.) 
This unction is sent from the great Duke of Florence. 
Duke of F Sir, be of comfort. 
Brach. O, thow soft, natural death! that art joint twin 
To sweetest slumber ! no rough-bearded comet 
Stares on thy mild departure ; the dull owl 
Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse wolf 
Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse: 
While horror waits on princes. 
Vit. O, I am lost for ever ! 
Brach. How miserable a thing it is to die 
_’Mongst women howling !—What are those ? 
