University of Virginia Library

BOOK III.

SCENE I.

A Heath. Time—Noon.
Flor.
(without.)
(Enters).

What a wild and desolate place this is! I saw the horrid feet of a wolf just now, printed in sand and blood, as if it had drawn a stag backward. Not a word to the signor! He would fancy a wolf in every gush of the wind. A little more to the right, signor. There now, I declare, you walk very well without a guide.

Enter Fontano.
Fon.
Just here I do. Where are we? In a forest?

Flor.

On a low, sandy, heath; just like a desert. We have left the woods. What a vast number of birds there are in this wilderness, signor. I wonder they should live, where there is not a soul to listen to their music. Did you not say, signor, that the bird, we heard just now, was a nightingale?

Fon.
Yes; 'twas a nightingale: and notes so wild,
So rich, so long continued, never yet
Were heard in Syria, or in Persian groves;
Circassian vallies; Tempe's sacred glen;
Nor e'en amid the gardens of Damascus.

Flor.

Fairies, they say, signor, live upon the brains of nightingales.

Fon.
Do they so, my little bird of Paradise?

Flor.

Yes, signor; and not only on the brains of nightingales; but upon the leaves of violets, blue and white, yellow and purple; single and double; mixt and unmixt. Oh—it must be excellent food!

Fon.
Sing you, and dance, too, at the self-same moment?
One might suppose, thou wert a wood-nymph; born
On fields of Enna, whence the Stygian Jove
Rapt the fair daughter of majestic Ceres.
Why dost thou dance?

Flor.
Because the sun doth shine,
And make me glad. I feel, as I could spring
High as the rainbow. Sitting on her ring,
I'd hail the stars; while all below would seem
Like seas of milk, encompassing a land,
Flourishing with vi'lets, hyacinths, and jasmine,
Roses, carnations, daffodils, and snowdrops.

Fon.
(aside.)
This boy, at times, seems older than he is.
Sometimes he prattles like a child; then seems
All wisdom like a man:—now boy, now girl;
Nature's own child. He dances round me, too,
Like mountain zephyr round an Oread queen.

Flor.
To sing when we dance, and to dance when we sing,
Are enough to turn shepherd-boy into a king:
To play on a viol, and waltz on a green,
Are enough to turn shepherdess into a queen.

Fon.
Thou art so cheerful and engaging, boy,
That nightingales will cover thee with leaves;
And flowers spring up, in myriads, o'er thy grave,
To tell each stranger, as he passes by,
That Nature's happiest work lies buried there.

Flor.

O that were charming, should it e'er prove true. Now, signor, I'll sing you a regular song; but you must not laugh. Don't look at me, signor. I cannot sing, if you look.

Fon.
Would that I could! alas, alas, I never—

Flor.

Oh me! I beg your pardon, signor. I quite forgot, that you were blind. I am a thoughtless little person; without wit; and, I am sorry to say, without much money.

Fon.
You make me smile, in spite of all my sorrows.

Flor.

Fon.
Beautifully said, and beautifully sung.

Flor.

But there is only one stanza, signor. Shall I sing you the other?

Fon.
Ay, my dear boy; full twenty, if you will.

Flor.
(aside.)

Now then. I'm almost ashamed, too. But I love, from my heart, to cheer the mind of my master.

Fon.
I cannot answer;—since you sing so well.
But I am weary, e'en to fainting, boy.

Flor.
Then let us lie down, signor. There;—now you are safe. [Places Fontano in a nook.

Though it is little more than noon, this shade
Shall make me sleep, as if it were the night.
But do not wake me, sire, as mothers oft
Wake their loved infants, when they sleep too long;
Fearing, that death prevents their eyes from opening.
But let me rest, till sleep itself forsakes
Its downy couch.

Fon.
Sleep well; and may
Enchanting dreams delight thy slumbering lids.

Flor.
[Pulls out her beads, and begins telling them.

Fon.
Sweet boy—he slept before his hymn was closed.
Guard him, ye watchers of the day and night:
Guard him, ye spirits of the azure deep;
And YE, who guide with hallow'd steps to heaven.

[Sleeps.

SCENE II.

Ruins of an immense Castle among the Apennines, bordering on the sea; between the arches of which appears a deep glen, lying in the bosom of a vast pile of mountains, capt with snow: some little way up one of which is seen the monastery of Salvator.
Time; Sunset.
A banquet, spread upon the fallen entablatures.
Cerello, sitting with the hawk upon his knee in the distance.
Romano, reclining on one of the fragments, engaged at

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82

chess with Carlo:—Fracastro revising a MS.; his lyre lying beside him:—Officers carousing.
Rom.
Check to the king.

Carlo.
Check-mate?

Rom.
Check-mate.

Fra.
I'll take the conqueror. A knight or bishop,
To make the' engagement equal?

Rom.
Take a knight.

[Fracastro takes Carlo's seat, and Carlo joins the carousing party.
(Chorus.)
The winds and the waters re-echo our song;
And murmur success, as they wander along.

[Romano quits his seat suddenly; comes forward, and sits at the base of one of the columns.
Rom.
This merriment o'erwhelms me. Yet I've heard,
'Tis wise to mix the graceful with the grave.
These silent emblems of magnificence!—
I've named this paradise the silent glen.
The sun sinks deep; the azure cliffs above
Glow into purple; and the waves beneath
Reflect the varied tintings of the forest.
There bees store nectar; there the woodlark builds;
And doves cling, cooing, to their native perch.
There the lone nightingale hymns vespers; there
The rich nyctanthes scents the evening gale.

[Takes off his sword, breast-plate, and helmet; and places them on one of the architraves.
Fra.
Signor, you quit us. Is it well to leave
The feast, the revel, and the song; and brood—?

Rom.
My friend,—the oil of merriment is gall,
When the soul quickens with an inward anguish.
Sorrow works wonders;—I'm a grey old man. [Pulls a few hairs from his temples.

Ere woe had stolen my golden youth away,
Young with the young, and aged with the old,
Calm was the tenour of my life; and sweet
The placid whisper of all-councilling time.
But why paint pictures, that recal past hours,
Never, no, never to return?—when life
And love were one:—when life and love struck chords
In hallow'd unison. O happy time!
Lost in oblivion; or remember'd only,
As the bright skies of Italy are mourn'd
By those, who, stranded on the fretted coast
Of Nova-Zembla, far remote from man,
Behold cliffs rise, whose tops are lost in clouds,
Eternal snows, and pyramids of ice;
Where nought is heard, but ocean's ceaseless roar;
And nought of animated life is seen,
But huge sea-serpents, and shagg'd arctic bears.
Marco,—observe! Thou know'st, of many an hour,
In silence and in solitude, I cheated
Old weary Time in modelling a statue.
Thou and Bernardo—journey to the quarry.
Bring the loved image. In some sacred niche,
We'll dedicate the marble to the ruins.

[Exeunt Marco and Bernardo.
[An officer comes down from the carousing party.
Offi.

I wonder, sir;—I wonder, you. .should have. . . a liking to. . .that Venetian galley-master there. . . . He'll, one day, be-be-be-tray you, sir There's danger here . . .six. .days out of. . .seven.

Rom.
I want no telescope to see through you.
Mere envy, sir; and nothing else: begone:
Stay not one moment. You're in wine; and show
What you wish sober. I've observed you long.
Nay, sir; no argument: get hence; and seek
For listening dupes, where listening dupes abound.

Offi.
(aside.)
He's turn'd me sober;—I'll straight march to Naples.
May plagues and mildews light upon them both.

[Exit.
Rom.
Baseness I hate in all; but most of all
I do despise a low-bred, envious, man!
Come here, Fracas—; but I'll not stoop to tell him.
List, now; how sweetly, mid yon deep recess,
The notes of this wild instrument will echo;
As if some spirit dwelt within its bosom;
Living in rapture on the rainbow's tints,
Spring's opening blossoms, and th'ambrosial dews,
Which float along the mountain's shadowy van,
Distill'd from hyacinths and the evening air.
There's not an echo in all Italy,
France, Tyrol, Switzerland, or Sicily;
Not e'en the sacred echoes of Olympus,
Can with this vie. It answers from yon forest;
Then from the cliff, impending o'er the torrent;
Whence, passing through the variegated woods,
Which belt Salvator's monastery, dies
In whispers, doubt, and mystery away. [Blows his bugle. Echoes.

Is not that magical?

Fra.
The loveliest sounds,
That ever met my wondering ear.

Rom.
What's that?
Another bugle answers in the distance.

Fra.
Perchance, the lonely wanderers, whom we saw
Climbing a precipice.

Offi.
Perhaps, 'tis Sardo.

Rom.
Who journey'd forward to conduct him hither?

Fra.
Pedro. They come: I know their footsteps well.

Enter Sardo and Pedro.
Rom.
Sardo? Thou art an antelope. Thou hast
Outstript the eagle in his flight. Good news,
I hope, has given good pinions. Welcome.

All.
Welcome.

Sardo.
Signor and signors, I am proud: my thanks
For this, your kind reception. These two letters
Will speak the issue of my embassy.

Rom.
What says the venerable doge of Venice? [Reads.

There's always comfort from the golden Venice.
What news from Mantua? (reads.)
Oh the faith of man!
The Duke seems dubious; he distrusts his means;
His frame is sickly; and he fears the senate.
He thinks, they think me guilty, then! Yet says,
In two years' time—: The emptiness of man!
In two years' time, the world and all that's in it,
May be no better than an empty bubble.

Fra.
I hope, the letters please thee, sir.

Rom.
They must:
Since written by a friend: They're bound by custom.

Voice
(without).
Wīllŏx-ŏ-whōo-hōo.

Cer.
An owl! He'd better not come near my hawk.
Quiet, sir; down: be quiet, griffin-grooven.

Rom.
What noise was that?

Sardo.
I'll tell thee, signor.—Pedro! [Whispers:—Exit Pedro.

As we came hither, we beheld a boy,
Roll'd up, and sleeping like a dormouse, 'neath
The chequer'd shadow of a linden tree.
We raised him gently from his leafy bed,
And brought him hither. He, at first, slept soundly:
But, in the moment he awaked, alarm
Seized on his senses; and such sorrow flow'd,
That we repented, we had brought him with us.

Rom.
Is there not misery in the world enough,
But you must wantonly increase it, sir?
I hate all wanton cruelties:—they're unmanly.

Sardo.
Methought, you'd like him for a page.

Rom.
A page?
The time's gone by for pages.

Fra.
He is here. Enter Pedro leading Floranthe.

He seems no savage; and appears more beautiful
Than does become his sex. Good morrow.

Sardo.
Pause.
Perhaps he'll imitate a bird. He did so,
As we came hither. Imitate the owl.

Flo.
(calls.)
Wīllŏx-ŏ-whōō-hōō!

Rom.
He is an idiot. But I know not whether
We ought to pity, or to envy him.

Flo.
(calls.)
Cūr-lèw!

Rom.
It grieves my heart to see a mind so weak,
Usurp a frame so noble. Give him food.

Flo.
(aside.)

Oh my poor master; my poor unfortunate master! What will you do without Floranthe?

Fra.
Were he not thus accoutred,—as I live,
With locks all tendrill'd like the clustering vine;
With eyes like gazelle's; teeth like Indian pearls;
Neck form'd of snow, and lips like morning's blush;
I should, I swear, have hail'd him for a girl,
Who wish'd for once to act the truant's part,
And gain a sun-burnt countenance at noon,
Looking for birds'-nests. Take this orange, boy.
Throw it away? Pomegranates suit thee better?

Flo.
(plays with two, by throwing them up in the air, and catching them, as they fall.)
Yāhŏŏ—yāhŏŏ—yāhŏŏ—hōō!

Rom.
Do not alarm him farther, my Fracastro.
Let him go whither he may wish.

Fra.
Poor soul!

Flo.
(calls.)
Willŏx-ŏ-whōo-hōo!

Rom.
(aside.)
Now would I give five dukedoms, if I had them,
That I'd been born beneath a woodman's cot,
And been an idiot, like this whimpering boy,
Ere I had left the sacred isles of Venice.

Fra.
What—are you going? Nay—you must not go.

Flo.
I shall go.—I will, I shall; I will, I shall. Whŏ-hōo!

Rom.
Nay let him wander where he will. He's harmless.

Flo.
(aside.)
O me—I was near dropping this dear, dear, portrait. Poō-loō.—Poō-loō!

Fra.
What is he hiding?

Marco.
Let us see.

Flo.
Tŏ-cōō.

Marco.
Come, let us see. What secret hast thou here?

Flo.
A hawk, a hawk, (striking him).
(Aside)
The mean, audacious, man!

Rom.
That serves you right. I am ashamed of you.
Idiots are sacred. We may call them errors,
In the vast scheme of nature; but they are not.
They're framed for use; if 'tis for this alone,
That, bearing human form, they check our pride,
Excite our pity, or alarm our fears,
Lest we, at best, may be but idiots too.

Flo.
(aside.)
Idiot?

Rom.
Let the boy go. He shall be teased no longer.

Fra.
Go, my poor boy; and take my blessing with thee.

Flo.
(aside.)
(Addressing Sardo1, Fracastro2, Marco3, and Romano4.)
[Runs out.

Rom.
'Tis the last wave, that whelms the sinking ship.
I ought to laugh, as you do; but I cannot.
There's something in the manner of this boy,
I cannot comprehend. Go after him:—yet stay.
What right have we to play upon his weakness?
Give me a lute. (Aside)
The skill, I have remain,
Shall charm the scorpion, memory, to peace.

Fra.
Nay, Sardo; bring it. Art thou deaf? 'Tis yonder.

Sardo.
Pardon me, signor. I was thinking how
The boy deceived us. He's no fool, I warrant.

Rom.
Foolish, or wise, we have no right to keep him.
Come, signor Carlo:—no;—let Sardo try.
Come, Sardo; place the pieces, and move quickly;
Or I'm check-mated. Take a knight; begin.
Nay now, I'll venture— (aside.)
Oh this Duke of Mantua!—
He has disorganiz'd my skill. (To Carlo.)
Play you.
Return the knight, and let the field be equal. [Rises; comes forward; and leans upon the shoulder of Fracastro.

This Duke of Mantua,—we were boys together.
Oft have we climb'd the Apennines; and oft
Made the transparent Brenta waft our shouts
And the loud echoes of our winding horns,
As the wild stag swam, panting, down the stream.
He was a suitor to thy mother; but
She thought, she saw a sordid spirit in him.
She knew him better than myself. Two years?
'Tis death to wait; ruin to lean on any.
Give me the lute. I thank thee, sir. Marsyas! [Strikes a few chords.

The full-orb'd moon will be eclips'd to-night.
'Tis nineteen summers, since, as gliding o'er
The balmy surface of Venetian seas;
Our voyage to Naples!—as we coasted near,
And heard soft anthems from the pilgrims, kneeling
At our lov'd Lady of Loretto's shrine,
The moon waned from us; and the stars alone
Gave evidence of light. Just nineteen years!
The moon must, therefore, be eclips'd to-night.

[Retires to a lonely part of the scene.
Fra.
He will not play now, though he holds the lute.
Oh what a picture is a mind in ruins!

Rom.
What? Is it thus? I'm paralyzed. I could
As soon draw syrens from the azure deep,
Or seize the sceptre of the universe,
As draw one note from this all-speaking lute. [Comes forward, intermittingly; sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly; holding the lyre in one hand; and waving his other, with a circular movement, over the crown of his head.

Wretch that I am, what governs me? Perdition.
What right have I to act the mimic?—Lutes?
Will lutes, or harps, or dulcimers, restore
My murder'd wife? my long-lost child? my honour?
Out on all lutes! [Throws it down with great violence.

Haste to your couches: I'll return anon.
There is a moment, sacred to oblivion,
For all, save me. Sleep! sleep! I trust no more
To visions, dreams,—fantastic dreams—and hopes.
(To Fracastro)
Should I ne'er touch this honest hand again;
Nay—start not: but remember, that I once
Thought all men honest; all men kind and true.
Farewell; farewell: the stars will one day move
Backward; and, wandering from their stated spheres,
Darkness and death will sit upon their thrones.
Mind, that I say so. Fare ye well.

[Exit.
Fra.
Your couches!
He's so much alter'd, since we knew him first,
That every word and look and start alarm me.
See, see, a star,—perhaps a world condemn'd,—
Falls from the zenith of the firmament!
Haste to your couches; it portends strange issues.

[Exeunt into the interior of the ruins.

SCENE III.

A part of the Heath, described in Book III. Sc. I. p. 75.
A Precipice, at a short distance, overhanging the Sea.
A loud barking of foxes is heard, mixed with the screaming of eagles, and the howling of wolves.
Enter Fontano.
Enter Schidoni.
Schid.
By this rude heath, I shall return to Naples.
Who have we here? some poisoner, I suppose,
Looking for hemlock. Is it possible?
It cannot; and yet is. He gropes his way.
The boy has left him! He's a bold, young, urchin.
This is plain land; I'll lead him to a better.
I ought to do so; since I wooed his daughter.

Fon.
Ah, my sweet boy; I've wrong'd thee much: my boy!
Art thou still near me? Take this hand, dear child.
Heaven—what is this? Oh me—a hand of ice,
Large as a giant's, and all wither'd. Who?
Who, and what art thou? Strike me:—I am ready.
Strike the last stroke; but do not grasp me thus.
Let my hand go!

Schid.
(aside.)
Not three steps off, there is a precipice—

Flor.
(without.)
Willŏx—ŏ—whōo—hōo!

Fon.
Oh—the great Father of the world—I thank thee.
The hand has fallen! Imagination oft
Makes all men martyrs. Darkness palsies me.
I thought, I felt an icy hand touch mine,
Like to the paralyzing hand of Satan.

Flor.
(without.)
Signor! signor! signor!

Fon.
The boy:—the boy! All-gracious heaven—I thank thee.
Ne'er will I murmur at my fate again.

[Schidoni retires a little:—Floranthe rushes in, flies to Fontano, and falls at his feet.
Fon.
Whither, my guardian angel, hast thou been?
I've pass'd an anxious, miserable, time,
Since I awoke, and could not make thee hear me.

Flo.

I've ran so fast, signor, I can scarcely speak. Two men found me asleep on that bank. They took me up, and carried me away. When I awoke, I thought

I should have died. They took me to the ruins of an immense castle, not two leagues distant; and who should I see there?—Romano and all his officers.

Fon.
Impossible!

Flo.

I saw them all, signor, as certain as I see you now. He seem'd a kind-hearted signor; but I wanted to return; and what do you think I did? I put on the face of a fool; and passed myself off for a fool. And I did it so well, signor, that I truly believe, they were as glad to get rid of me, as I was to get rid of them.

Fon.
A masterpiece of wisdom!

Schid.
(coming down a little.)
Is it thus?

Flor.

Before I came away, however, I let them all know, I was not quite such a fool, as they took me to be.

Schid.
This boy's a wit;—I shall observe him closer.

Flo.
(recitative.)

There was one officer among them, named, I think, Fracas—Fracastro, or some such name; so good; so mild; so gentle; yet so manly. Hear you not military music?

Schid.
What may this mean?

[Exit.
Fon.
No limit to our dangers!
List how soft music swells upon the gale.
Now all is silence. Hark!—it swells again;
Rising and falling with the buoyant wind.

Flo.

Depend upon it, signor—Romano is coming in search of us. Let us hide ourselves in this nook. But do not be afraid, signor; I do not believe, he would touch a hair of our heads.

[They hide themselves.
Enter the King, Vercelli, and several officers.
King.
Remain ye there: we shall be with you soon.
Now I shall tell ye, wherefore we came hither.
Velutri whispers, that Fontano is
More wrong'd, more injur'd, than my tongue can speak.
This is the wilderness, in which he travels,
Led by a guide. We'll visit him;—and try
Our utmost skill and wisdom to discover,
Whether Fontano or Schidoni most
Deserves th'ignominy of a public scaffold.
Here comes a stranger; let us ask of him.
Enter Lepardo.
Sir, hast thou seen a blind man on his way,
Led by a youth; and leaning on a staff,
Like what is writ of Belisarius?

Lep.
The very man I seek myself. I have not.

[Floranthe looks out; and, after whispering to Fontano, goes up to Lepardo.
Flor.
I'm hungry, thirsty, cold, and poor;
Obliged to beg from door to door.
No cot have I to lay my head,
Or mother's care to give me bread:
'Mid hail and rain, in frost and snow,
The sport of all the winds, that blow!
Forlorn I rove from day to day,
Along this rough and rugged way.
Oh, Signor! do bestow upon
Affliction's poor, deserted, son,
One little gift to help him on.

Lep.

Thou art an eloquent beggar, whoever thou art; and I will give thee a ducat, if thou wilt tell me, whether or not thou hast seen a blind gentleman travelling this way.

Flor.

Stop here one moment. [Runs to Fontano.
Signor—a rich cavalier! Take hold of my hand, and let

me lead thee to him. Here is the Gentelezza, that you want.

King.
(aside.)
This is most fortunate.

Lep.
Most noble signor,
I pay thee all the homage of a friend.
A messenger, return'd from Naples, has
Inform'd Romano of thine injuries.

Fon.
Well, sir, what then? Romano is a man,
Whom once I loved; but whom I now disdain
As much, or more.

Lep.
Thou dost mistake him, sir.
He is a man, more sinn'd against, than ever
Breathed the pure incense of Italian skies.
He is an upright, honourable, man.
Give him the sanction of thine injuries then;
And thou shalt reap revenge, as well as he.

Fon.
Is his ambition, then, revenge? Destruction;
Whispering, like harlots, only to betray.
Bear this in mind:—Misfortune comes from heaven,
To cleanse the heart, and purify the soul.
A heartless traitor to the land, that bore me?
False to my king? Oh shame, oh shame; to wrong
These sightless eyes with such an imputation.
Country;—my country! while thy happy vales
Blush purple with rich vineyards; while dark clouds
Roll round the girdles of thy mountains; while
One cot remains for shelter 'mid the storm;
Nay—while one leaf shall vibrate on another;
Load me with taunts; oppress me thick with wrongs;
Make me a monument of public scorn;
Yes,—though I begg'd from strangers,—I'd call down
The choicest gifts of bounteous Heaven upon thee.

King.
(aside.)
Oh miracle of honour!

Lep.
Hear me, signor.

Fon.
No;—I'll not hear. I'll hear no more. The Power,
That rules the destinies of men and kingdoms,
Visits the crime of treason to our country,
Even more heavily than murder.

King
(to Lepardo).
Signor—
Stand thee aside:—I can refrain no longer.
Canst thou forgive? Most injur'd martyr, say,
Canst thou forgive?

Fon.
(kneels.)
My sovereign? 'Tis a dream.
My fancy wanders, and mine ears deceive me.

King.
No—no;—ah no! It is thy sovereign bends.
These tears respect; and, if thou canst,—forgive!

Lep.
(aside.)
I'm lost in wonder.

Fon.
Dearly valued master—
I know thy nature: thou hast been deceived.
Let us, then, drown all memory of the past
In this embrace.

King.
I clasp thee to my heart.

Ver.
(to Lepardo.)
Come, sir, with me. Receive the meed of treason.

Lep.
Treason? what treason? I'm from Venice.

Ver.
That
Is to yourself. These chains are light.

Lep.
Unlawful.
Against the law of nations. I'm from Venice.

Ver.
Venice or France: it matters not. Thou hast
Striven to seduce a subject of the king;
And thou must, therefore, pay the penalty.

[While the officer is binding Lepardo, and Fontano is introducing Floranthe to the King, Schidoni enters on the opposite side.
Schid.
Death and destruction—who are these? The king?
Fontano, too? undone; undone! The furies!

[Retreats.
Flo.
(recitative.)
The rain may fall in torrents down,
And every towering rock be rent;
The winds may blow, and fortune frown;
My master smiles, and I'm content.

King.
One of Romano's officers has been with me,
Told me his haunts: he has, in truth, betray'd him.
But from some words, I heard Velutri drop,
I have some reason to suspect, Romano
May have been wrong'd, as much as you. Shall we
Dare to adventure? Shall we leave our army,
At some short distance from Romano's haunts,
Provoke his version, and so probe the truth?
You can appear to sanction his designs,
And introduce Vercelli and myself,
As pilgrims, guiding thee the road to Venice.

Fon.
Your highness wills;—my duty is obedience.

King.
Take off those chains. (To Lepardo).
We will to see Romano.
Lead thou the journey. But observe this caution:
Let him not know, that Ferdinand, the king,
Has left his state, at hazard of his life,
In hopes to find him innocent. Our army—
Should he discover us, and presume to treat
Our Royal person as a foe, a signal,
Giv'n merely thus, relieves us in a moment.

Lep.
I shall be proud, most Royal sir, to act,
As you may please to charge me.

King.
Now, Vercelli,
Command our army to begin the march.

Flo.
(aside.)
Then I shall see Fracastro once again!

[Vercelli gives the word, and the whole army passes over the stage. Military music.
King.
(To Fontano).
Lean on this arm.

Flo.

Fon.
Excellent boy—The world has not thy peer!

[Exeunt.
[Re-enter Schidoni, in a paroxysm of passion; beating his forehead, and sometimes holding a dagger to his breast.
Schid.
What have I seen? and whither shall I fly?
Curst be the hour, I first beheld the sun;
And curst the day, that gave my mother birth.
And yet I loved the tottering, good, old woman!
Nay, I could weep, to think on what she suffer'd.
Would I had been as dutiful, as she
Was kind and good! yet wherefore? Since reward
Comes not to virtuous actions;—since I see,
That good men perish,—bad ones do no more,—
Like horses, dogs, hyenas, and constrictors,
Where is the use of virtue? since to starve
On hungry hope is all th'inheritance,
The good and wise seem doom'd to. I have seen it!
Where virtue is,—there we see sorrow, want,
A martyrdom to treachery or revenge,
Hatred or envy, jealousy or despair,
A silent anguish, or a public wrong.
Who then but fools shall court the ugly cheat?
Live while ye can; and perish, when ye must.
That is my creed; and shall be, too, my practice.
And yet I could not, I confess, have been
Worse used by fortune, had I lived, and toiled,
For days, weeks, months, nay weary years, or ages,
For others' benefit, rather than mine own.
Stay: stay;—I'm hasty:—there is solace yet.
Romano's haunts, I think the urchin said,
Lie in the depth of yon sequester'd glen.
I loved his wife with passion. But for him,
Perhaps, Francesca had been mine. May all
The curse of Cain, if such a man there was,
May all the curses, that can light on man,
Plague, famine, thirst, insanity, and hate
Of all he loved, bewilder him! But for him— [Stamping the earth with great violence.

Perhaps, I say, Francesca had been mine.
He loved her, woo'd her,—married her! One day,
I met her coming from St. Agnes' cloisters,
Veil'd, and her beads beside her. She had been,
—It matters not—I touch'd her hand. She frown'd,
As if 'twere treason I'd been guilty of.
I was revenged upon them both! This portrait— [Taking a miniature from his garment.

Thou wert a lovely angel, I confess.
Hark!—'Tis the echo of the sounds, which show
The road, returning. Never more shall I—
Yet stay;—I have it.—I'm in paradise!
I will return unto the fisherman.
Ere this, no doubt, he is return'd from Naples.
I'll send him to Theresa for my harp;
(A few hours' journey); and some counterfeits
Of coins and keys; desire him to ascend
Yon valley to Salvator's porch; where I
Shall meet him on the morrow. It is done! [Puts up the portrait.

I'll act such service to king Ferdinand,
That all the past shall be as clean wiped off
The tablet of his memory, as if
Th'infernal characters never had been written.
Service to him were service to myself;
Pardon and riches, dignity and power.
To him, who robb'd me of Francesca, chains,
Wheels, racks, and saws;—the pillory and the gibbet!

[Exit.