University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Park of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Enter Juranio and Salvatore.
Juranio.
Whose grounds are these?

Salvatore.
The Marquis di Tiburzzi's—
A sorry sequel to an ancient stock,
Whose wide dominion once outstretched our sight.
Alas! for him, poor man, malicious fortune
Threw all the choicest of her random smiles
Upon the wrong end of his famous race,
And now mocks him with what his fathers were.

Ju.
A pretty place! Some heritage of beauty
Yet harbors here. Mark how the clustered blossoms
Star the dark back-ground of yon shady wood.

Sal.
O! yes; but mark how jealous avarice
Has shorn the chiefest saplings to the root.

Ju.
Yet spared us every flower. Praise be to Heaven!
Their beauty is not marketable. See,
A living bower, a bower of growing vines,
All carpeted with last year's fallen leaves!

Sal.
A thrifty thought! The very dead are used.
That hint was stolen from Egypt, where they burn
Their spicy ancestors. 'T were a proud thing,
To sit down at a fire of Ptolemies,
With Cleopatra for a back-log.

Ju.
Ugh!
You would put out the harmony of heaven
With your great sprawling jokes. The hand of taste,
Making best use of few materials,
Is here.

Sal.
The hand of woman.

Ju.
Worse and worse!
I'll fly you, shortly.

Sal.
'T would confess your devil,
To fly at holy names. Why do you shun
These dainty blossoms of humanity
With such stern care?—So ho! run, run for life!
There go two maids—two full-blown, dangerous maids—
Hide you, sir modesty!

Ju.
You know them maids?

Sal.
I take them so on credit.

Ju.
Save you, save you!
Good lady-broker, you will one day fail
From such long credits.

Sal.
See, they make this way.
Here comes the goddess of your living bower.

Ju.
Which one?

Sal.
The shorter.

Ju.
No; the taller one.

Sal.
How know you that?

Ju.
I trace her little fingers
In the soft curvings of each vine.

Sal.
Ho! ho!

(Laughing.)
Ju.
I'll bet my Arab—saddle, spurs, and all—
Against your empty laugh, those cunning girls
Are plotting to ensnare some luckless man:
I see such malice in your small one's eyes.

Sal.
Done!

Ju.
Done!—Come hide.

Sal.
A mere excuse for running,
You arrant fly-frock!

Ju.
Here, behind the bower.

[They secrete themselves.]
(Enter Costanza and Filippia.)
Costanza.
Press me no more; my motives are my own.
You grant me judgment?

Filippia.
More than you grant me.
You have some cloudy fancy in your brain,
That needs but airing,—some weak, flimsy notion,
That common reason would dry up at once.

Cos.
You rate me poorly, cousin.

Fil.
There again!
You would be off. Stick to the text, Costanza.
Do you love Marsio?

Cos.
Would I wed him else?

Fil.
You dare not answer strictly.

Cos.
Why then ask?

Fil.
I know you do not. 'T is not in your nature
To fall so meanly. O! be warned in time.
The twin-born heart to whom you owe allegiance,
To whom, perforce, you must surrender love,
Will track you out at last. How fearful, then,
To perish piecemeal with a smothered passion,
Or—I will not repeat it: 't was a story
Old at the flood.

Cos.
Here I dare answer strictly.
If you will not allow me Marsio,
At least, I love no other.

Fil.
But you will—
Nay, never raise your brows—you will, I say,
Fall in a frenzy of outrageous love
With some stern, mulish creature, like yourself,
Who swears he'll wed the blackest blackamoor,
And will—that will he!—though the heavens should fall!
Tell me, Costanza,—tell me, darling cousin,—
What are your motives in this strange affair?

Cos.
Then will you cease your torments?

Fil.
Ay; and vow
To keep good counsel.

Cos.
Nor by word or deed
Again oppose my purpose?

Fil.
Yes, to that;
But 't is a bitter contract.

Cos.
Let us walk:
The story is a long one.

[They walk up the stage.]
Ju.
Salvatore,
This eavesdropping is scarcely honorable.

Sal.
What a fine moral sense! Just as you lose
The last faint whisper of their pretty talk,
Up starts indignant honor.

Ju.
Ah! her voice
Held honor spell-bound. Did you mark, with me,
How the low music trickled from her lips?
All heaven was listening to her, why not we?

Sal.
Which one set heaven agog?

Ju.
The taller one.

Sal.
The small one spoke the more.

Ju.
More, but less valued.
The other's phrases served to bind together,
As baser metal solders sovereign gold,
The broken links of her harmonious thoughts.

Sal.
Zounds! are you mad?

Ju.
I know not what I am:
I am something I was not an hour ago.

Sal.
Unhappy idiot!

Ju.
See, see, she walks!

Sal.
A wonderful exploit!

Ju.
I must address her.

Sal.
Fellow, there are two. To my unbiassed eyes,
The smaller is the fairer. Let us leave,
As partial penance for our vulgar fault.
Will you not come?

Ju.
No; I must speak to her.

Sal.
That were ill-bred.

Ju.
I'll frame new codes of manners.
Fair lady, by your leave—

[Advancing to Costanza.]
Sal.
Nay, be not startled.
'T is but a simple kinsman of my own,
A poor brain-darkened lunatic; but harmless,
Quite harmless to a lady. Pray you know him;
The Count Juranio—once a wiser man.

[Juranio bows.]
Ju.
And here his cousin, signore Salvatore,
[Salvatore bows.]
A world-wide jester, a professed buffoon;
The globe 's his bauble, all mankind his mark;
Each word of his a jest, or meant for such.
A cunning ferret after doubtful phrases,
A subtle reasoner upon groundless proofs,
A deep inquirer into shallowness,
A dangerous friend, a harmless enemy;
His own best jest, oftener laughed at than with.
Weigh well your words, give him no cavilling point,
And you are safe.

Fil.
Two weighty characters!

Cos.
What mean you, gentlemen?—You should be such
By dress, if not by manners.

Ju.
We—I—I—
What would we, Salvatore?

Sal.
We would know
The way to town.

Fil.
Why, all the steeples stare
Above yon hill.

Sal.
Ah! yes.—True—true, indeed—
I see—What would we, Count Juranio?
There is an awful mystery here, which I
Would fain explain, if we might meet again.

[Apart to Filippia.]
Fil.
A mystery! How, meet me? I cannot tell
But I may often ramble hereabout.

[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Our ways are doubtful: odder things have been
Than two chance meetings.

[Apart to Filippia.]
Ju.
Has my tongue strayed off?
[Aside.]
Lady, from that small spring, the human heart,
Arise a thousand swelling impulses,
Each one a mystery to the sober brain:
'T were vain to ask why we do thus and thus,
Why crush that good intent, and rear this wrong,
While the poor reason, that would fain inquire,
Is impotent to rule. 'T was such an impulse
Drove me to what I did; which, being done,
I forge no false excuse, but simply beg
Your gentlest censure.

Cos.
Sir, a fault confessed
Pardons itself one half. I will not grudge
A full forgiveness, if you ask it of me.

Ju.
I do, most humbly. It is not my wont
To sue for breach of manners.

Sal.
That I swear!
He was the flower of distant etiquette
To all things feminine.

Cos.
Nor are my manners
Of the sour, formal cast that freezes back
The generous feelings of o'erflowing nature,
And bars the way between our hearts and lips;
Nor—nor—Indeed I know not what I say—
I talk at random. Pray you, leave me, sir:
You trifle with me.

Ju.
Lady, are you just?

Cos.
O, heaven! I am not; neither to myself,
Nor those who own my duty. Say no more;
But leave me, leave me!

Ju.
I obey; how sadly!
May we not meet once more?

Cos.
No; never, never!

[Exit with Filippia.]
Sal.
Gods! we are all mad together!

Ju.
“Never, never!”

Sal.
You lost your Arab.

Ju.
Did I?—“Never, never!”

Sal.
Ay; but you did.

Ju.
'T is granted.—“Never, never!”

[Exit. Salvatore following him amazedly.]

SCENE II.

The House of Marsio. Enter Marsio.
Marsio.
Where I had purposed to court, beg, and bribe—
To out-scheme Machiavelli, and so tug
Against the disadvantages of birth and rank,
That, by sheer strength and resolute force of will,
I hoped to barely conquer—they at once
Thrust the fair prize in my astonished arms,
Blow all my crafty net-works to the wind,
And half undo me with sheer wonderment.
They say she loves me.—Hum! I'll think of that:
It looks suspicious.—Nonsense, Marsio!
Hold up thy head! Did they not, upon 'Change,
Marvel at thy advancement? Ah! did not
That sneering beggar, Volio, who can boast
Some half-score drops of gentle blood—
Who never condescended—bless his stars!—
To speak with thee;—did not that ragged wretch—
Ha! ha! I watched him from behind a pillar,
Close, very close, as 't was rehearsed to him—
Did not even he turn blue with choking envy?
Swore 't was a lying scandal; but no less
Bowed his majestic forehead to his belt
When next we met? Lord bless us! and he spoke,
So sweetly spoke, in such a winning whisper,
Of the “dear Marquis,” of the “dear Marchioness;
Hoped the fair lady of my heart was well;
When would my marriage be?” And then he took
So grave and formal a farewell of me!—
The devil claw him!
(Enter Pietro Rogo.)
How now, Master Rogo?

Rogo.
So! How now, Master Marsio? Men have said
Your grand betrothal has upset your brains:—
By heaven! I think so. “Master Rogo,” sooth!
Why, yesterday 't was “Good friend Pietro;”
And “Kinsman Pietro;” and “Pietro,
I have a secret for you!” Out upon you!
I thought to hear some folly, but your style
Out-fools conceit!

Mar.
I prithee be not rude;
Nor so presume on former fellowship—

Rogo.
Where are your wits?

Mar.
Cease your blunt manner, sir!

Rogo.
What?

Mar.
Cease, I say!

Rogo.
The world is full of marvels;
I myself can dream some stretch of wonder,
And they say poets, and such-like madmen, can,
By some shrewd knack, make that appear as truth
Which really is not; but roll all the poets,
All my wild dreams, all the earth's prodigies,
In one huge mass, and Marsio makes them tame.

Mar.
Good Master Rogo—

Rogo.
Pietro is my name.
No man shall master me.

Mar.
Pietro, then;
Since yesterday, as you observe, a change
Has come across me. Yesterday we met
As Marsio, the merchant, and his friend:
To-day I represent the last great branch
Of the Tiburzzi; and as such expect
That due observance of my rank and person
Which it is but my duty to demand,
And is as much your duty to bestow.

Rogo.
You thrice-dyed fool! With the Tiburzzi's daughter,
Did you receive the blood of all the race?
Their gentle culture, their refined politeness,
Which wins, but never asks, a man's respect?
I tell you, Marsio, you have climbed a tower,
To make your shameless folly further seen.
Come, come, be ruled.

Mar.
Begone, sir! Leave my house!
I wear a sword.

Rogo.
A lucky thought, my lord,—
My bold Tiburzzi! By the devil's beard,
I'll try your lordship's hand at noble arts!
When we get through with this, we'll run a tilt.
Draw!

Mar.
Will you leave me?

Rogo.
Draw, my noble sir,
Or I will thresh your noble lordship's shins
With a good Milan blade. The devil take me,
If I endure your airs! I'll make a hole
To let discretion in you. Draw, you oaf!
[They fight. Rogo drives Marsio round the stage.]
Your lordship gives, gives to this vulgar man?—
That 's charitable!
[Marsio is disarmed.]
Now, sir, were it not
For the huge sin of surfeiting the devil,
With such a lump of folly, I would let
Your windy soul out of some ugly gash.—
Nay, you 're not off yet. Promise me to be
My old, dear friend, Marsio of yesterday,
Or I will send that semblance of my friend,
Into whose body you have falsely crept,
To sup black Pluto!—Swear! or, on my life,
Your shrift is short!

Mar.
Come, come, friend Pietro.

Rogo.
You are improving. Swear it!

Mar.
Well, I swear.

Rogo.
Never to be a lord to me?

Mar.
No, never.

Rogo.
Ever to listen to my wholesome counsel,
Though it be rugged as the road to heaven;
And to receive it, if your candid judgment
Can bring no cause against it?

Mar.
Yes, and yes.
Take your cursed rapier from my throat!

Rogo.
'T was blessed
To your salvation, most ungrateful man.
Go up, old Milan: when you are sunned again,
May you be umpire in as good a cause!
Now of this marriage; is the rumor true?

Mar.
Ay; have you aught to say?

Rogo.
Against the fact,
Nothing.—Though, in this easy-jogging land,
Marriage seems quite superfluous to me:—
And the same cause which makes a single state
Endurable, should scare us from a wedding.
Well, let that go. You are a wealthy man,
And must have lineal heirs—either your own,
Or seeming so—undoubtedly, your wife's—
To squander your slow millions in a day.

Mar.
Are the sour sneers of an old sapless miser
What you call counsel?

Rogo.
Patience, patience, friend.
Who is the maid?

Mar.
Had my heart rhetoric,
'T would answer in fit phrases.

Rogo.
Bless my soul!
He 's metamorphosed to a first-class lover!
You have a tongue, perchance?

Mar.
The fair Costanza—
Costanza di Tiburzzi is the name—

Rogo.
They doused her with at baptism. Fair, you say?

Mar.
Fair as—as—

Rogo.
What?

Mar.
As any thing you choose.
Her charms outsoar my fancy; fly your own:
Come, Pietro.

Rogo.
Ecstatic driveller! Fair?
I like not fair. The ugly ones are best:
They bear the patent of their chastity
In their brown skins, in their green, filmy eyes,
Their clawish hands, their broad, earth-flattening feet,
Their crooked ankles and their camel backs.
Without temptation, there can be no sin;
But where the fruit is jolly, and hangs out
As a ripe challenge to all passers by,
Heaven only knows who tastes, who handles it,
And who goes harmless past!

Mar.
Pietro Rogo,
Is there one subject under the mad moon
Too weak to found an argument upon?
I'll venture, with your talents, you can prove,
Against all comers, that incontinence
Is but a wide benevolence; that murder—
Under the million given circumstances
With which your nimble wit shall hedge it in—
Is a humane achievement; theft, an instinct;
Cheating, a thrifty thoughtfulness of self;
And so forth, on through all the deadly sins.
Poh! poh! what stuff you talk!

Rogo.
Back to our subject.
Costanza di Tiburzzi should be daughter
To an old dwindled noble of that name:
Is it not so?

Mar.
It is.

Rogo.
They want your wealth.

Mar.
And they shall have it! Our long-shadowed name
Shall blaze, with a new light, through Italy.

Rogo.
O, ho! “our name!” My sword crawls in its scabbard.
Friend, you have not one generous aim in this;
Your own huge pride awakes this forward zeal:
But you'll learn wisdom through humility.

Mar.
How, raven, how?

Rogo.
A hundred little things
Shall make you gnaw your fingers to the quick.
You'll haply blunder at the first grand feast:
At which Lord So-and-so will titter, titter;
And Lady Somebody will simper, simper;
And sly Count Nobody, a noted wit,
Will wink and wink; while some bluff honest duke
Howls out his laughter. Then our father wriggles,
And stares straight through a six-foot granite wall;
Our mother blushes, and talks violently
About the price of spaniels to her neighbors;
Our bride hangs down her head—perchance a tear,
Like a full dew-drop, gathers on her cheek,
And drowns out its carnations.

Mar.
I will hire
The world's opinion till my manners mend.
Life is but one long lesson.

Rogo.
Ah! I fear
Your lesson will be paid for in rude coin.
Now hear me, Marsio; if you are horn-mad,
Wed some fresh country girl, some honest thing,
Too big a fool to be a lady sinner—
Too proud of you to think you aught but perfect—
Too ignorant to know your faults of breeding—
One every way inferior to yourself—
And I will chime in with your marriage-bell.

Mar.
You waste your wisdom, Pietro; I'll wed
No other than Costanza.

[Pulti sings within.]
Rogo.
Hark! here comes
Our merry gossip, Pulti. Let us ask
A fool's advice. Babies and naturals
Speak, sometimes, by a kind of inspiration.

Mar.
You will not condescend?—

Rogo.
'Sblood! he 's a man!
I have no princely notions, like your own,
To pull me from my fellows.

(Enter Pulti, singing.)
Pulti.
The devil wriggled,
The devil squealed,
The devil gave a shout;
But Saint Dunstan he
Held on stoutly,
And put the fiend to rout.

Mar.
Stop your din!
That villain has one long, unending song
About a certain devil, who has seen
More sad adventures than the Golden Legend
Recounts of all its saints.

Pul.
Hem, hem, hem, hem!

Mar.
What do you hem at?

Pul.
I have seen in churches,
When the dull preacher would not hem himself,
The congregation would hem for him.

Rogo.
True.
What thinks your wisdom of your master's marriage?

Pul.
Lord! sir, I seldom think; it spoils my talking.
I scorn your thoughts; the stealthy, spectral things
Smell of the church-yard, and of heaven and hell—
And bygone happiness, and present pain—
And barren futures filled with new-made graves—
And baby-hopes nipped in our nursing arms—
Of all that 's dreary, and of naught that 's bright.
They are huge stoppers for a flowing mouth,
That still by strangling.

Rogo.
Have you naught to say?

Pul.
I'll race my tongue with any man's. I say,
My master will be wiser than he 's rich.

Rogo.
A goodly store of wisdom, that! How, boy?

Pul.
When he has gathered in his bursting brains
All the fantastic humors of a woman,
He'll have more thoughts than ducats.

Rogo.
Marsio, mark:
The knave 's a prophet. What is wedlock like?

Pul.
Much like sin's journey after happiness.
We start upon it with a merry heart,
Proceed upon it with a sober one,
And end—

Rogo.
Ah! yes; where end we?

Pul.
Not at all:
We stumble in our graves.

Rogo.
A gloomy thought.

Pul.
'T is not a thought. I lit upon the fact
By seeing, and not thinking. For your thinkers
Go stumbling headlong in with all the rest,
Thinking of all save death.

Rogo.
Sage doctor Pulti,
You shall teach me your doctrines.

Pul.
I will, sir,
In one short rule.—Keep your eyes ever open.

Mar.
Have you not done? For Pulti will reply
Till doomsday break. 'T is not his wonted mood;
He 's oftener gay than sad.

Pul.
'T is a sad thought—
Note, signore Rogo, thinking makes one sad—
To weigh two losses with a single gain.

Rogo.
Your wit outshoots me.

Pul.
With a feeble shaft.
I, by this marrying, must lose a master;
My poor, poor master—who may comfort him?—
Must lose a servant!—Such a servant, sir!—
So sober—when you keep his wine away;
So sweetly tempered—when you do not cross him;
So grave and seemly—when there 's naught to laugh at;
So frugal—when you give him naught to spend;
So every way perfection—where you grow not
The carnal apple to assail his Adam.
I have lived on these conditions, many a day,
The best of slaves.

Rogo.
But where 's your single gain?

Pul.
Nay, 't is but half a one: master and man
Share it between them.—'T is an untried mistress—
A vast, dim, shadowy, uncertain fear,
That may be saint or devil.

Mar.
Pulti!—dog!
Saddle my horses!

Pul.
For the beggar's ride.

Mar.
Dare you presume so far upon my kindness,
You coarse-grained knave?

Pul.
Not I; I never trespass
On such unstable ground.

Rogo.
Where do you ride?

Mar.
Where should a lover ride?

Rogo.
O, pause at once.
All things cry out against this unmeet match:
Blood, rank, and breeding, fortune, friends, and tastes,
In rigid opposition stand between.
You cannot mould these opposites to one;
Force them together, and earth's primal chaos
Were harmony to their eternal jar.

Mar.
You could not move me, had you Tully's tongue;
Prop heaven with virgin gold, you could not buy me;
Summon the damned, with all their terrors on,
You could not daunt me!—To the horses, Pulti!

Pul.
[Sings.]

Mar.
You know this cudgel, sirrah?

Pul.
Thank you; we 've often met before. His name
Is oak; his mother was an acorn. See,
I know the family from end to end.
You need not introduce us, signore.

[Exit.]
Mar.
Rogo,
The aims of my existence have been few,
Yet, in the service of the thing I sought,
I have offered up my health, my life, my soul.
He must be rash, or confident, who stands
Between a zealot and his single mark.—
My horses, Pulti!—I have set my heart
Upon this marriage; let heaven frown or smile,
Till I am blasted into nothingness,
I will pursue it as if heaven were not!—
My horses, knave!

Pulti.
(Without.)
Here, sir. Ho! Lucifer.

Rogo.
I'll try to cross you for your own advantage,
If honest means may prosper.

Mar.
Well, push on!
Choose your own weapons, fight as you think fit;
But, Pietro Rogo, when we are at the tug—
When the blood boils, and timid conscience flies—
When what opposes, with a friendly front,
Is not distinguished from an enemy—
Then call for mercy to the prayer-stunned saints,
And hope an age of miracles may come,
But not to Marsio!—My horses wait.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.

A Room in the Castle of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Costanza and Filippia.
Filippia.
Saw him before?

Costanza.
Yes;—only once before.

Fil.
But where, and how?

Cos.
Can you not call to mind
The day our duke was welcomed by the people?

Fil.
As well as yesterday.

Cos.
Indeed, indeed!
It seems a weary age since then, to me.
Among the nobles, who rode nigh the duke,
Was one who, in all noble qualities
Of port and majesty, rode there supreme:
Clad in black velvet, for his father's death;
Yet wearing a long plume of ostrich white,
As a fit emblem of the general joy.

Fil.
Lord! you know all about him!

Cos.
Yes—why—yes.—
Surely the people talked of him alone.

Fil.
I was beside you, yet I heard them not.
Well, well, go on.

Cos.
It chanced a beggar's child,
A pretty boy—one of those nimble imps
That live by miracles 't wixt horses' feet,
And under carriage-wheels—became entangled
In the unusual press; shrieked out for help;
Then, suddenly, was still for very fear.
The whole crowd held its breath, and one great heart
Beat through it all. Now there arose a cry:
Yet while the silly people did but scream,
Down from his charger leaped the cavalier,
Dashed in the throng, and, ere I cried God bless him,
The boy was laughing in his mother's arms!

Fil.
Now, I recall some little scene like that.

Cos.
'T was a great scene! The Duke stretched out his hand;
And, glorious in his dimmed and miry suit,
The hero mounted lightly on his horse.
Some nobles laughed, some sneered, some looked askance;
But all the people raised a mighty shout;
And the great sun, bursting a heavy cloud,
Shone round Juranio like a halo!

Fil.
Brave!
Yet, cousin, I saw not one half that you did.
I heard a child scream; heard some voices call;
Saw a man quickly leap down from his horse;
Heard a faint murmur; then the show went on.—
About the sun and halo I know nothing.

Cos.
'T was many a day ere I forgot the Count;
And when we met this morn, a sudden thrill
Of the old feeling stirred my memory,
And brought me back that moving scene again,—
Which much confused me.

Fil.
Ah! “Which much confused you!”
Take my word, cousin, our heroic Count,
When he caught up the beggar's little boy,
Caught up a certain lady's heart, I wot of.—
But I approve it.

Cos.
What do you approve?

Fil.
The catching up of fair Costanza's heart.

Cos.
I beg you, cousin, not to break your jests
Upon so grave a subject. Had my mother
O'erheard your heedless nonsense, this would be
A stormy day for me.

Fil.
I have a secret—
Nay, a surmise, which I have made a secret—
That casts a fearful shadow.—

Cos.
I am listening.

Fil.
I fear to speak; knowing the steadfast love
You cherish towards your parents.

Cos.
Dear Filippia,
My marriage has perplexed you sadly. Speak;
For it must be your subject. I absolve you
From your hard promises. Come, come, give tongue;
Draw off your rancor to the very dregs:
Ill words, well-purposed, have no mischief in them.

Fil.
Has not your mother an o'er-anxious care
About this marriage?

Cos.
Is it not a duty
She owes my father?

Fil.
But your father looks
So sad and moody! Then he never speaks.
There 's something in his silence.

Cos.
It reveals
The wishes that lie nearest to his heart.
He fears his choice has swayed my inclination;
And that I marry signore Marsio
More from a sense of duty than from love:
So he withholds his counsel, leaving me
My own conclusion.

Fil.
Doubtless that might be.
I could unfold such things.—The saints forgive me!
Love, gratitude—owed, if not well repaid—
O, why do you cry out so loud against me?
She took me when a child, a helpless orphan—
When no one else would keep me—when my kin
Hawked me about, with a sour charity,
From one hand to another;—reared me so
That the most jealous eye could not detect
Wherein my training differed from her own,
Her own dear child, Costanza's; for whose sake—
But what affection pardons treachery?

Cos.
Filippia, darling, pray be plain!

Fil.
No, no;
I cannot, dare not. I have said too much.
Your mother's smile will be a long reproach
To me, who should deserve, above all others,
The never-ending smile she suns me in.
I have had thoughts, base, base, degrading thoughts,
But I will kill them, if I perish with them—
Which, but to speak, would make yon old Tiburzzi
Leap up and shudder in their frames; would shake
This ancient roof-tree on my wicked head,
And hide my shame in ruins! It were just.
Believe me not, Costanza; scorn my hints;
Cling to your mother—she is worth your love.
I, I—O, vile!—nay, do not pity me—
Am the most faithless of a high-souled race!

Cos.
What mean you? Speak!—You do not love me. Speak!—
What is this mystery? Speak!

Fil.
No; never more.
We must all wreck together; I am dumb.