University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—AN APARTMENT IN THE PALACE DE COMMENES.
Enter Louisa and Maria.
Louisa.
'Tis near the time, Maria.

Maria.
It is, lady,

Louisa.
Oh this suspence! this tedious chasm of being,
That so destroys our present faculties,
And wraps them in the future.—
This feast of yesternight was brighter far
Than aught within my memory.

Maria.
Aye, madam,
So noble and so brave a company,
The music and the glorious temple.—

Louisa.
Peace!
I think there is no doubt of Claudio's safety;
Why dost not answer me? there can be none.

Maria.
I hope not, madam, nay, I'm sure there is none.

Louisa.
That's a kind word. Even flattery sometimes
Is dear to us, although we know it is so,
And yet, I trust, in this 'tis but the truth.

Enter a Servant.
Servant.
Madam, the count Cimaro.

Louisa.
I am sick,
I'll not be spoken with; yet stay, I know not,
His countenance were great to save my Claudio,
I wait his pleasure. (Ex. Servant)
He should be right noble,
And fond of such a spirit as my Claudio.

Enter Raffaelle.
Raffaelle.
A fair good morrow to you, gentle lady;
Your beauties do not fly the sun's quick beam,
But shew like flowers, that, wond'rous as I thought them,
But droop by night—and meet the brighter day
With tenfold fairness.

Louisa.
You are jocund still, sir.

Raffaelle.
Sadness dwelt not in Paradise—and here,
Eden's restored to me—beneath that smile
Grief can no more exist than pow'rs of evil
Within the light celestial.

Louisa.
You prove your wit, lord Raffaelle, not your truth.

Raffaelle.
Nay, that can never be, if saws be true,
A lover's heart feels deeply, and his tongue
Gives utterance to matter, more than words.

Louisa.
Your mirth's your love, Cimaro.

Raffaelle.
Not so, lady,
Albeit I am not of that whining tribe,
Who, having no other fortune than their words,
Mete them out dolefully to a nasal tune,
And strangle joy in their contorted faces.
Lady, we both are revelling in the morn
Of fair and sportive youth; on both of us
Fortune has shed abundance; in our grasp
Lie all 'neath sov'reign honours; we are plac'd
So far above the underlings o' the world,
Common events to us may be disport,
And while the tide of fortune sweeps down fools,
We stand the barriers of the puny flood,
And overpeer its rage.

Louisa.
Life's accidents,
If they harm not ourselves, may yet have power
Upon our friends; and in their fate we feel
The ills of being.

Raffaelle.
Why should we then link
Our greatness to their frailty? nature shews
In this, we should be faithful to ourselves.
He who would save a drowning friend from death
May topple headlong in, and die himself.
Great minds with great should join—and wealth with wealth—
And pow'r with pow'r—and all things with their equals.
In this, I still am speaking 'gainst myself;
For you, being peerless, never could be mine.
You smile, dear lady, might I hope that smile
Assur'd me favour in my bold attempt,
I should then dare to say, that all unworthy,
And poor, as I may seem, compared with you—
Though those bright beauties, resting in these arms,
Would shew as brilliant as the lustrous moon,
On the deep vested bosom of still night—
Though none can equal that all heav'nly sweetness,
Second to none beneath yourself;—in Mantua,
The richest, and most potent, as I am,
I lay my love most humbly at your feet,
And wait in hope your soft and gentle kindness
To place it in your heart, to rest for aye.

Louisa.
Good words, well put together, lord Cimaro.

Raffaelle.
Say—a good meaning from an open heart;
But will you deign an answer to them, lady?

Louisa.
I've not the wit to jest, as you have done—

Raffaelle.
But to be serious as I have been.

Louisa.
Oh! that were to say nothing.

Raffaelle.
Trust me, lady,
I've said no more than my full heart has prompted;
And ask from you a like sincerity.

Louisa.
Then, not to wrong your openness, beseech you
Believe at once that I can ne'er be your's;
And from all further suit—I do entreat
You will refrain.

Raffaelle.
This is a lady's “nay,”
And therefore I am bound to disbelieve it.

Louisa.
My lord Cimaro, 'tis no idle thought
Makes me refuse you, if you love me truly
You'll speak no more of this.

Raffaelle.
(Aside.)
Is't so, 'tis well,
Ha!—ha!—I'll try:—I would not, trust me, lady,
Urge you beyond the deep respect I owe you;
Yet, for your honour, may I tell you this,
Injurious as I doubt not you will deem it,
'Tis said you will espouse the felon Claudio.
(She endeavours to speak.)
O! trust me—I could not give ear to it
Beyond the observance of a smile—I see—
I knew it must be false.—

Louisa.
No more, I pray you.—

Raffalle.
Nay, I, perchance, should not have spoken of it,
But feeling a deep interest here to serve you,
I would not that the slightest taint should rest
One moment on your fame; and though I scorn'd
Even to repel the foolish calumny.—

Louisa.
My lord Cimaro!

Raffaelle.
I would pursue the sland'rer to the death,
If you but wish it:—'twas a sacrilege
To join that spotless name with such reproach.

Louisa.
And why reproach? Cimaro.

(Hesitatingly)
Raffaelle.
(Aside.)
Yes, she loves him:
Claudio thou diest: heav'n has no pow'r to save thee.
Oh! t'was the very madness of their malice
To link imperial blood with a murderer's.

Louisa.
A murderer's!—he is no murderer.

Raffaelle.
Nay, I know not—the duke will be his judge—
No more of him—let us to sprightlier subjects.

Louisa.
I pray you pardon me—I am not well.

Raffaelle.
I'm sorry that I mentioned this report,
But I am guiltless of belief in it.

Louisa.
Leave me, I pray you.

Enter a Servant.
Servant.
My lord, you are enquired for.

Raffaelle.
'Tis well:
Madam I'll leave you—trust me I am grieved—
Much grieved I spoke of it—farewell—farewell—
This scene will change 'ere night—'tis done—he's dead.
(Aside.)
As I return from court I'll wait on you:
He's not the first kill'd by a woman's kindness.

(Aside.)
(Exit.)
Louisa.
Come, come, Maria; come, my gentle girl,
Lead me into my chamber—Oh! my heart
It leaps into my throat, cruel Cimaro!
Love him! oh Claudio!

(Exeunt.)