 | The Count Arezzi |  |
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ACT II.
SCENE I.
Public Walk.Arezzi and Savelli.
SAVELLI.
We shall unriddle mysteries, and absolve
Whether in this young world, new fortune meet us,
Or we must take the old.
AREZZI.
But tell me how?
SAVELLI.
By asking something warmly, suing, urging,
Making one point the pivot of your will,
Still begging more, entreating.
AREZZI.
By mine honor
I would not for the crown.
SAVELLI.
The crown! the coxcomb!
It is not for the crown—well—let it be,
This honor seems engaged to do no good;
It will not serve its friends.
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What wouldst thou have?
SAVELLI.
That which I do not covet. I tell thee, Count,
I must be abbot—crowns with us are mitres,
And one stands void: yet, for myself, I care
No more than thou for thine. We love our brethren,
And would do kindly to the kind—they wish it,
For them I wish it too. The poor lack bread,
The naked shelter! we shall see, beside,
Whether we judge this guardian by our spleen,
What are our hopes hereafter. I shall be
A rule to take the measure of his thoughts;
If he refuse, look wisely toward thy fortunes,
If not, he loves thee still.
AREZZI.
I need not try him.
SAVELLI.
Well, well—then others will. I am not left
So naked by my friends, that such a prayer
Will be refused me twice.
AREZZI.
Have patience, father.
SAVELLI.
Patience!—well patience—if I lack such here,
It is because the first of twenty wishes—
Not blown by forced suggestion whence they came,
But prompt, though false, that sometime something good,
By some kind chance might rise to prove your love—
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And cite your honor for its halt—your honor!
AREZZI.
I would not ask it for myself.
SAVELLI.
Nor shall you
Do more for me: this were to profit both—
But let us now forget it; when I try
Your love again, the folly will be double,
Till then, adieu!
AREZZI.
Nay, prithee father—come—
I will do any thing you wish.
SAVELLI.
Then hear me.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Palace.Duchess and Cicilia.
DUCHESS.
My spirit is more perplexed to day—the day
I looked for rest.
CICILIA.
It is but seldom thus.
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Why no—for that, thank Heaven! our blood runs freely,
Nor frozen nor fired; but now I grieve to seem
Unkind, or worse—unjust: Arezzi flies me;
And thou too, child, though wiser, nobler, better,
Of more enduring nature—
CICILIA.
What!—your Grace
Will not distrust my love?
DUCHESS.
Come hither then.
Dost thou not love Arezzi too?
CICILIA.
Your highness
Hath ever seemed content that I should do so.
DUCHESS.
I have, indeed, till now.
CICILIA.
Nor hear I yet,
Why I should not.
DUCHESS.
My altered will, Cicilia.
CICILIA.
That shall command my duties; yet forgive
If what grows mightier than mine own will, prove
Almost too strong for yours.
DUCHESS.
Till late, you say,
I seemed consenting to his love?
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I thought so.
DUCHESS.
And so I did—I nursed its growth—and since
Have ever passed it smiling. Now our will
Turns back, not to rebuke, but bid it end:
Can this seem just?
CICILIA.
Why not? it were indeed
A starved and sickly faith, which lives no more
Than while it feeds on blessings—what I know
Is manifest good; I will believe the same
Of that which I know not.
DUCHESS.
Bless thee! Cicilia—
Thus ever swiftest in the race of goodness;
I follow, shamed, far off! but God forbid,
To bruise a heart like thine, or wrong with scruples
Its truth and singleness! Come near me, child—
I can trust too—thou knowest I love Arezzi?
CICILIA.
Not less than you love me.
DUCHESS.
I love him better.
CICILIA.
Even this I will not envy him, and yet
I thought not so before.
DUCHESS.
Ye both were mine,
By unpresuming wisdom thou, a spirit
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Yet he, though froward, and less in grace than thou art,
Is more mine own by nature.
CICILIA.
How so?
DUCHESS.
He is
Nearer in blood by much.
CICILIA.
In nature—
DUCHESS.
That—
No matter what we call it—instinct, yearning,
Which all-preserving Nature showers abroad
O'er mothers' hearts, to make their sorrows dear,
And waken tenderness through pain—dost blush?
CICILIA.
I knew not that I did—Arezzi's mother!
DUCHESS.
I give the key to wonder, but beware
Lest some injurious and ambiguous thought
Should enter too. My honor keeps its place
As high as suits the daughter of a king,
Don Carlos' sister—ha?
CICILIA.
Your Grace mistakes me.
The Count Arezzi yours?
DUCHESS.
My son, Cicilia—
Prince Andria's son—thy kinsman. This has been
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Look! how amazement tends to ecstacy—
Dost hear me speak?
CICILIA.
Pray—pray—
DUCHESS.
I who abhor
The reptile traversings of dubious souls,
Have stooped to this. It could not be through shame,
For Andria was the image by whose gold
The noblest swore, and o'er whose laurell'd head
Was honor superscribed—his sovereign's friend,
The people's idol. Women when they loved,
Would feign some likeness 'twixt their choice and him,
And men grew proud to think it such—he was
What now Arezzi might be.
CICILIA.
Why not love him?
DUCHESS.
Because he was a subject—and my brother
Had scorned to call him his. Through this, our marriage
Was hidden unhonor'd and half blessed.
CICILIA.
The Count Arezzi—
That Count Arezzi, then, whose name he bears,
Is but a dream!
DUCHESS.
There was a Count Arezzi,
Young, wealthy, well allied—but rash and hated,
Prince Andria's kinsman. Threatened and pursued,
He fled with one he loved, to Florence, Pisa,
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But perished in his flight. The time accorded;
Andria was next in blood: their mystery lent
Our child a name, which justly we might give him,
As ours and his—it placed him in our sight,
His father's ward.
CICILIA.
How many thoughts come home
Till now forgot, which find their place unfilled,
Like martlets to their last year's nest in spring,
Disused, and yet familiar.
DUCHESS.
This love between you
Grew on unblamed and blameless. We descried
In him its present usefulness, to charm
Impure suggestions from the spirit of youth,
And turn its fires to profit: we believed
A future good to both: but Fortune thwarts us,
Another sovereign rules, the duke loves too.
CICILIA.
As children do—no more than I love him.
DUCHESS.
It matters not if thought so young may die
Ere fancy change to passion. Youthful dreams
Are mighty while they last. We must not say
“Arezzi loved the first, give place”—our strength
Is Ferdinand's pleasure; and beside all this,
Naples looks kindly on the boy—it shows
Truly, though ignorantly, a parent's fondness,
While we of Spain grow alien. There are around us
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With you, too near the throne.
CICILIA.
Your Grace shall guide me;
But still remember this—you have not found,
In twenty years, that Time can conquer Faith,
Or Wisdom Nature—judge my heart by your's.
DUCHESS.
I do, and find it pure where mine is not.
Why—bless thee, child—that which is told may show
How much I trust thee, and the time to come
Shall prove my love. If either had been less,
I could have kept my secret still.
CICILIA.
Your Grace
Shall not repent its loss.
DUCHESS.
Things changed from good
May change again from evil. Prince Andria waits
A message to us both from Spain; with that
We learn the worst—but—till it come—Cicilia,
Promise that prayers and sighs shall not prevail
Above the faith between us.
CICILIA.
I promise.
DUCHESS.
Lock what you hear from all, and, most, Arezzi.
Be wise and secret, child, till then.
CICILIA.
I will.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE III.
The Palace Stairs.Savelli and Gerardo.
SAVELLI.
Tell him that all men wish it—push him hard,
But warily: say that the abbot died
With his last hope—that, as for me, the honor
Is known, not sought, and felt, not coveted.—
Now go, and with good speed.
GERARDO.
But conscience, brother!
Three lies as preface to a deadly sin,
And simony to boot!—Why, no man wished it;
And abbot never hoped it; thou dost covet;
And I expect some profit!
SAVELLI.
Well—be wise—
It is a day to prosper in. We come
The earliest suitors to this half-grown king,
And he will give to show that he is gracious—
The Count shall follow next.
GERARDO.
The Count indeed
Is wisely led, so may he come to grace.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE IV.
A Chamber in the Palace.Prince of Andria and the Duchess.
DUCHESS.
You should have done it then. The tide at flood
Ran high, but missed, this bark where all our hopes
Are stored and destined for the days to come—
Lies idly on the perilous strand of time,
To rot or perish.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
But I could not do it,
And yet it will be done.
DUCHESS.
I trusted to you,
Or would have dared myself. Our brother's nature
Grew softer, and his spirit was more inclined,
While the winds called him from me. Men disclose
Their nature's frailties to observant eyes
Not least when least they feel them. Wherefore else
This double tenderness, and threefold friendship,
If those who love must part—but that the hours
Of passed communion were disturbed by folly,
Or fed to surfeiting? Had I knelt then
And owned that we deceived him, told our vows,
Our marriage, that Arezzi was our child,
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This cloud-built mystery of twenty years—
He would have found a reason for our guile
In his late pride, weighed your deservings justly,
And left us here forgiven—I gave the task,
Through shame, to you.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
I did engage to do it,
And failed, I own, through fear. The eve we left him
There was an hour for nature and kind thoughts,
When both drew farther from their place, and met
As level friends between. We spoke of Naples,
Duke Ferdinand, and you—your presence here,
Your honors in the state—and then I touched,
But tenderly—the eyeball of our hopes,
And talked of age and marriage. “Her grace”—I said—
“Climbs yet toward noon, but wedlock, to be blessed,
“Should not be later—while Life's wheel turns round,
“What ceases to ascend, declines.”—Methought
His face was troubled as he stopped me here,
And answered thus—“She has no equal suitor.
“The pillows of high heads, if chaste, afford
“Too narrow room for love. Spain can find out
“But few to match her children. Better live
“Alone revered than coupled with the base.”
DUCHESS.
You are too wary, Andria—while we knock,
The gate is barred within. This politic wisdom
Lacks boldness to perfection.
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Well—it does so.
I found my fault too late. You had my promise,
And yet it is fulfilled in part. The king
Knows all by this—that which I feared to speak,
I wrote at large. One watchful of his humours,
And near his side, marks some good hour in Spain
When we are missed and mourned—he has my letter,
And will bring back its answer. So forgive me.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
An Apartment in the Monastery of St. Ignazio.Savelli and Gerardo.
GERARDO.
It was a blessed thing to hear them speak
Of Ludovico and the saint deceased,
Their learning, and their wisdom, and their zeal!
You should have been there too—I never heard
More wholesome doctrine.
SAVELLI.
May we live to profit!
But tell me, does the light and straw-built duke
Float toward this man of amber?
GERARDO.
I shall speak
What wiser men have taught me—for the duke,
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Who humbly calls me brother—though a god
He in this firmament, and I at most
A priest,—have uttered for the two last hours
These and nought else. The abbey—as they say,
Needs stricter rule: disorder like a flood,
Extends and widens in our house—mark that.
The late good abbot—be the truth itself
Whispered with reverence toward his place and soul—
In age grew negligent. Hence strife, they say,
Lax laws, frail discipline, perverted funds,
Accounts uneven.—
SAVELLI.
Knew they this?
GERARDO.
Throughout;
Nay more; for when I told them of yourself—
How grave you were, and wise you were, adorned
With holiest letters—meek, I said, yet bold,
Laborious, watchful, pious, chaste, sincere,
And framed in all to grace the choice they made—
One pished, the other bade me peace, and both
Transferred my many-coloured coat to clothe
Their idol's nakedness.
SAVELLI.
Yet, who told this?
Not Ludovico?
GERARDO.
Nay, no matter who—
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Must have his feathers stuffed too! he shall last
Embalmed for ages like the Ægyptian bird,
Worshipped and mourned by kings. 'Twere less to see
My neighbour's house on fire, though next mine own,
Than hear him praised or pitied.
SAVELLI.
He would not die
A month ago—a month had saved us both.
GERARDO.
And this was what you call a kind good man
Who loved his brethren truly! He has lived—
With all his charity—a month too long,
And so may hang us both.
SAVELLI.
They seemed resolved?
GERARDO.
Faith we shall find it so. I might persuade
As easily the slumbering brain and ear
Of him we mourned for yesterday. Well, next
I tried this tangled skein the other way,
Spoke for myself a little, touched in haste—
As men who doubt if coals be hot or no—
Mine ancient services, the treaties wrought
What time they sent me on the state's affairs
To Modena.
SAVELLI.
This was a hazardous cast.
GERARDO.
And so it proved, but all was lost before.
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What did they say?
GERARDO.
Our pleasant duke laughed loud
At such an argument—waxed blithe and merry,
Recalled my least fair practices, and sneered—
With much philosophy to cool his mirth—
At good Savelli's advocate.
SAVELLI.
The child
Has learnt his lesson in his teacher's words,
And speaks it like a man.
GERARDO.
While Andria crams
This fluttering popinjay with bran for meat,
The moral fragments which from age to age
Wisdom lets fall, mere chips and crusts pecked up,
Then dropp'd as profitless—it eats and swells
And thinks it fattens!—Andria answered next—
“Go back, Gerardo, go. If we should seek
“One who can serve us wisely, and has hands
“To gather and distribute, drop his own,
“And filch his neighbour's—to apply a bribe
“Discreetly, and demurely take one back—
“His Grace will send and find thee—but till then,
“Remember, brother, it is sometimes wise
“In some things to forget.”
SAVELLI.
This was to thee?
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Ay, truth—to both—it served for both or either;
The sequel ended thus—“Savelli first
“Must call his equals round him, show his hoard,
“What sums he gathers for the public chest,
“And what and how disburses.”
SAVELLI.
So—the blight
Has gone abroad before me, and I reap
But stubble here—go on.
GERARDO.
The younger bird
Is but an innocent chick. Behold me thus—
With eyes awhile averted, diffident step
Retiring, and a long scarce audible groan
Half uttered half suppressed—“Unmerciful man
“Condemns his fellow, and a brother's tongue
“Wounds like the anointed sword! Is it too late
“To cast our frailties from us, and resign
“Earth with its toys—to strip the body bare,
“Despise its tenderness, afflict with stripes,
“And fret the extenuate flesh with chains! The cell
“Shades not its habitant; but Hate and Scorn
“Obdurate follow;—yea, the very lips
“For whose applause we stained us, and whose smiles
“First tempted to transgression”—
SAVELLI.
Light and darkness!
What didst thou hope from this?
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To make the duke
Suspect us both—my brother and myself—
The bulkiest lies swim best.
SAVELLI.
Bear witness now
These cheeks of mine can blush!
GERARDO.
Prince Andria's too
Were red, but less through modesty than wrath.
“Thy bribes,” he cried, “for us! that we should smile!
“I tempt thee to transgress!—Thou camest, O traitor!”—
He called me traitor to my beard, and I
Would risk my neck to make his words prove true;
There is a settling day for him and me,
But this some better time—“Thou camest, O traitor!
“Not penitent, not smitten in soul, not grieved
“And wearied with offences, not as one
“Who loaths and would renounce his lusts—but driven
“With hatred at thine heels, and like a wolf
“Fled'st hunted to the cloister, where that head,
“Hid in a cowl, its crimes.—Savelli too—
“We know you both, Gerardo.”
SAVELLI.
Indeed they do?
He knows us both—what did he say—us both?
GERARDO.
Both, man, he knows us both—well what of that?
And both of us know him.
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Let him say what.
He shall be answered straight. The weak and base
See dangers round them, and their treacherous souls
Desert them in perplexity, and fail
There most where most they need them. We, Gerardo,
Will threat the threatener, rise as troubles rise,
And grow from what would lessen. It is thus
That great men prove them such. The storm blows loudly,
And we will meet it with our teeth shut hard,
Grinning defiance. In this world there stands
But thou alone beside me—a hundred foes
Hedge round, each watchful when to strike, and all
Loud for the falling carcase. There are things
Ill-hidden which revealed would tell sad tales!
Thy brother knows us both—who knows how well?
The mightiest are against me, and my props
Fall fast—suspicion undermines the rest
Which stay me yet—ill-credit presses hard,
The public coffers in my charge abused,
And worse than empty, for the notes are there
Which tell their obligations! Thou and I
Have borrowed largely of their wealth, and now
No crown to pay—but mark, Gerardo, still
I will be abbot ere the duke is king,
And we shall prosper.
GERARDO.
Some one comes this way.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE VI.
An Apartment in the Palace.Duke, Duchess, and Prince of Andria.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
We have not seen Arezzi.
DUCHESS.
He of late
Has kept too much from home.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
I know his haunts,
And should be better pleased to find his choice
Were wiser in his friends.
DUCHESS.
Who? this Cimbelli?
PRINCE ANDRIA.
O he! I meant not him.
DUKE.
What is he?
PRINCE ANDRIA.
He is
A whelp too loud for mischief, yet they say
True bred—he left us babbling for a drum,
Took sides with Venice, and while heads with brains
Were burst by scores, his own ill-soldered pate—
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Came safely back. There is another near,
For choosing whom I mainly blame myself.
DUKE.
He that was late his tutor?
PRINCE ANDRIA.
I should blush
To own how much the learning of that monk,
His reverend carriage, and most eloquent speech,
Prevailed with one so wary. Pious, he seemed,
Discreet and mortified—his clear cool eye
Baffled my watchfulness.
DUKE.
You have heard more?
PRINCE ANDRIA.
Not yet—I dig, but cannot reach the root,
And therefore I suspect him. Meaner reptiles
Crawl to their mischief fearfully, and leave
Snail-like their slime to trace them where they go—
This worm seems native to the fruit he gnaws,
Engendered in the blossom.
DUCHESS.
Well, but why
Thus level at the friar? we must not hope
That Naples hides no fellow knave to this,
As wise and secret as he is.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
Your Grace
Sees that my threads are fine, but will not mark
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That plots affect the state—we know who meet,
For what, and where—we have a voice among them,
Our seat is in their closet—when we choose
We can lay hold on these.
DUKE.
Then why not, now?
PRINCE ANDRIA.
Good saints! not now. Your highness does forget—
These stand for little else than sticks or stones
To break our heads. I watch the hand which throws,
And leave the pebble where it lies. We know
That Naples swarms with treasons—leagues there are
Where traitors seek a breathing place for spleen,
Banded by tens and twelves. Each makes a whole,
Has signs and countersigns, its laws and leaders,—
A dwarfish state full grown. Though pledged and sworn,
None knows its own confederates—but apart
Obeys some mightier despot, who retired
Rules by his ministers, and holds unseen
Mysterious monarchy o'er all.
DUCHESS.
And so,
Bound by their sacraments, two friends or kinsmen
Might both be disciplined in several schools,
Nor one suspect the other?
PRINCE ANDRIA.
Even thus—and here
The law stands shamed and baffled—bid it on,
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And leave the rest more wise.
DUKE.
Well, now this monk.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
Next, then, for this Savelli. He has held
His abbey's purse for years, justly, men think,
At first, more loosely after, by degrees
Wide open to his lusts. A house so large
Has eyes to spare—and some have watched the friar.
Hence whisperings, not of thriftlessness and sloth,
Idle misuse, with prodigal palm toward all,
Large and profuse yet equal—but of waste
Luxurious, selfish, secret, and extreme.
Ask him for gold long due; it is a day
Too late, or else too early—then the charge
Breeds doubts and cavils—he must find it just,
And you, the while, must wait. He makes new friends
Matched badly with his years, his studies, calling—
And those who least love us. Ill men like him
Must put their necks in jeopardy perforce
To bail their heads—as drunkards stand the best
When most unsteadily.
DUCHESS.
This sheep, Arezzi,
Hath never dreamed his shepherd may turn knave,
But follows pure of heart.
DUKE.
Then let us warn him.
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That were to warn them both. I do suspect
An elder member of our house, a branch
Which rotten as it is, is ours—a wart
Set on our honor's nose—a scurf in the blood
To crust our pride with leprosy! I fear
Gerardo, not Arezzi.
DUCHESS.
Well, at night
We shall have time to question this again.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
A Walk near the Sea.Arezzi, Cimbelli, and Castro.
CIMBELLI.
We meet at sunset where we supped last night?
AREZZI.
I speak for one—not I.
CASTRO.
Nor I.
CIMBELLI.
How now—
This lover of the moonshine, let him go
And tune his lute—but you, a man of war!
What, was the wine too weak?
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Good wine, good supper,
And pleasant guests, Cimbelli.
CIMBELLI.
What would'st more?
CASTRO.
The spice alone which seasoned this good feast,
Was not so good.
CIMBELLI.
You do not like my friends?
Come speak it plainly.
CASTRO.
On my life, I do—
Them, and the things they like. There are in Rome
Who worship with the self same faith, and make
Their vows to Freedom too—but I came here
A stranger idly tired of home and ease,
No spy, no meddler—and would keep my head
To guide me back again. Now those we speak of
Set light by theirs—they talk about the state,
I will not say unwisely, but too freely.
AREZZI.
Both—sir—and you may add to both, untruly.
CIMBELLI.
Bah! you mistake them, Castro: they speak out
Like true and honest men. Cat's soup! too freely!
Why so? how speak these freedom-loving Romans?
CASTRO.
With strangers—not at all.
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What strangers? who?
Yourself and this Arezzi here? for one,
I told them what he is—a staunch staid man,
Honest, at least, and whether right or wrong,
No turn-about—who hates all sorts of changing,
Even to his shirt—whose reverend visage seems
Fashioned three thousand years, or more, ago—
The shell of some philosopher's stray soul
Gone to fill out a bear.
CASTRO.
This stands for me!
CIMBELLI.
Right, by Diana's brother—he it was
Who bade us know ourselves. The other too—
Ye amorous gales breathe softly where he strays,
And draw your odours from his sighs! Ye flowers
Yield to the purple languor of his cheeks
Suffused with tears! what can be known of him,
Creature so fine, impalpable as he—
A lunar rainbow's watergall in April—
They knew before.
AREZZI.
What did they know, Cimbelli?
CIMBELLI.
Why, that the duke—Heaven shield him! takes your love,
The prince your money—Cupid has your brains,
And I your company.
CASTRO.
Count, if this be true,
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May pass without Amen.
CIMBELLI.
'Tis done in mercy!
The grosser cares of wedlock, wealth, and eating,
So are removed. He lives a spiritual count,
Touched by no earthly sympathies—above
The thoughts of meat and drink, or coat and waistcoat.
What rich man married ever wrote a sonnet?
CASTRO.
Why true.
CIMBELLI.
And yet he murmurs! they who tell
His tale hereafter, will begin with words
To caution the ungrateful. It would make
Rare ballad-warning for rebellious youth,
Set to a sorrowful tune, well vouched at top
With rueful visage from some wood-wrought print,
And superscribed Arezzi.
CASTRO.
May I hear it?
AREZZI.
I care not—as you please—but take this with it—
Our earliest politicians hint abroad
That Punch grows old and sick—Naples, they fear,
May lose its oracle: now we would gain
The office by reversion for your friend:
He has some fruitful qualities, and lacks
Scarce one, but wit—well practise—sir—begin.
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Sit down then—shall I sing?—“Lo! this is he
“Whose parents dear are dolphins in the sea.
“They loved and they married, but the maid
“Had kinsmen hard of heart, and so she fled.
“They went far off by night—new names they got,
“No matter whence, and now, no matter what.
“At Pisa did they rest awhile, and there
“This babe was born—”
AREZZI.
His feet have slipt the stirrups—
What else?
CASTRO.
This spoils his rhyme.
AREZZI.
No matter now:
Better go on without—yet Heaven can tell
If I have ever thought my fate a jest,
Though I might scorn to weep at it.
CASTRO.
There is
With some mens' bitterness, a spirit like mirth,
And such, it seems, has yours. But I presume
A self-invited guest, and ill-advised
Have thrust me rashly on a stranger's patience:
Yet more in ignorance than want of shame,
And less through will, than chance.
AREZZI.
It is a tale
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That still we should be such. Well—now the poet—
Come, mount again, and forward.
CIMBELLI.
Tell the rest
Thyself!—the muse disdains thee for her theme,
And so thy name shall perish.
AREZZI.
Peace, then, parrot.
CASTRO.
Pray let him end this sing-song as he can.
AREZZI.
He could but tell you that it is my chance
To be an orphan twice. For those two lost,
Two more were found as kind—yet love in error
Is sometimes worse than hate. They should have matched
My thoughts and fortunes—but they laughed or winked at
What must be mourned for now—those dangerous fires
Easiest enkindled in the spirit of youth,
Whose oils and odours feed them half life through—
Or quenched at first, or never—pride, ambition,
With lonely thoughts, and wishes not impure,
But wild—
CIMBELLI.
Love, and Love's dæmon, Jealousy!
AREZZI.
These they held lightly then—and then at once
Turned round, saw nothing right, reproved that pride,
Put chains on that ambition, made home sad,
62
And cast the shadow of their frowns between
The heart and its affections.
CIMBELLI.
This means courtship—
A timorous sort of paraphrase! and so
Sir Mouse must hide him while sir Monkey woos—
Yield to his betters there! The duke in love
May bid the count stand back—nay—not too far,
Not out of calling, neither. They will want
A brideman for the groom.
“What shall I do—give counsel, love, and say
“What I shall do! is it not time to die?
“Long have I tarried here, I know not why—
“And still deferr'd the thing from day to day—
“Lived on, if this be living.”
AREZZI.
I may not take
My sword and find a home elsewhere.
CIMBELLI.
Well, well—
Good night, go both to bed—he is untrue
Who says that tyrannous deeds are done by tyrants—
And so no supper!
CASTRO.
Stay man—for myself,
I care not where I go.
AREZZI.
Nor I, Cimbelli,
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CIMBELLI.
To the moon?
By old Astolfo's hippogriff and horn,
And your lost wits, I yield the guidance there—
You know the road the best. Arezzi's greatness,
His villas, servants, treasures, tenants, farms,
Wine, household stuff, books, statues, pictures, horses,
And wardrobe, save a silken suit of black,
His wife herself, and five of his own senses,
Are all up there.
[Exeunt.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
| The Count Arezzi | |