A room in Camillo’s house
Enter Camillo, Hipolito, Virgilio, Asorino, Baptista, Bentivolio, Doyt and Dandiprat, all weapon’d, their rapiers’ sheathes in their hands.
CAMILLO
Gentlemen and noble Italians, whom I love best, who know best what wrongs I have stood under, being laid on by him who is to thank me for his life. I did bestow him, as the prize of mine honour, upon my love, the most fair Violetta; my love’s merit was basely sold to him by the most false Violetta. Not content with this felony, he hath dar’d to add the sweet theft of ignoble marriage. She’s now none’s but his, and he, treacherous villain, anyone’s but her’s; he dotes, my honour’d friends, on a painted courtesan, and in scorn of our Italian laws, our family, our revenge, loathes Violetta’s bed, for a harlot’s bosom. I conjure you therefore, by all the bonds of gentility, that as you have solemnly sworn most sharp, so let your revenge be a most sudden.
VIRGILIO
Be not yourself a bar to that suddenness by this protraction.
OMNES
Away, gentlemen, away then.
HIPOLITO
As for that light hobbyhorse, my sister, whose foul name I will rase out with my poniard, by the honour of my family, which her lust hath profaned, I swear — and gentlemen, be in this my sworn brothers — I swear that as all Venice does admire her beauty, so all the world shall be amazed at her punishment. Follow, therefore.
VIRGILIO
Stay, let our resolutions keep together; whither go we first?
CAMILLO
To the strumpet Imperia’s.
OMNES
Agreed; what then?
CAMILLO
There to find Fontinell; found, to kill him.
VIRGILIO
And kill’d, to hang out his reeking body at his harlot’s window.
CAMILLO
And by his body, the strumpet’s.
HIPOLITO
And between both, my sister’s.
VIRGILIO
The tragedy is just. On then; begin.
CAMILLO
As you go, every hand pull in a friend to strengthen us against all opposites; he that has any drop of true Italian blood in him, thus vow this morning to shed others’, or let out his own. If you consent to this, follow me.
OMNES
Via, away! The treacherous Frenchman dies!
HIPOLITO
[Catso], Saint Mark, my pistol; thus death flies.
Exeunt.