The Jew of Malta

Enter Machiavel.

Albeit the world think Machiavel is dead,
Yet was his soul but flown beyond the Alps,
And, now the Guise2 is dead, is come from France,
To view this land, and frolic with his friends.
To some perhaps my name is odious,
But such as love me, guard me from their tongues;
And let them know that I am Machiavel,
And weigh not men, and therefore not men’s words.
Admired I am of those that hate me most.
Though some speak openly against my books,
Yet will they read me, and thereby attain
To Peter’s chair: and, when they cast me off,
Are poisoned by my climbing followers.
I count religion but a childish toy,
And hold there is no sin but ignorance.
Birds of the air will tell of murders past!
I am ashamed to hear such fooleries.
Many will talk of title to a crown:
What right had Caesar to the empery?
Might first made kings, and laws were then most sure
When like the Draco’s, they were writ in blood.
Hence comes it that a strong-built citadel
Commands much more than letters can import;
Which maxim had but Phalaris observed,
He had never bellowed, in a brazen bull,
Of great ones’ envy. Of the poor petty wights
Let me be envied and not pitied!
But whither am I bound? I come not, I,
To read a lecture here in Britain,
But to present the tragedy of a Jew,
Who smiles to see how full his bags are crammed;
Which money was not got without my means.
I crave but this—grace him as he deserves,
And let him not be entertained the worse
Because he favours me.

Exit.