University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—OUTSIDE THE PALACE, as in Scene I., Act. I.
Enter Dordan and Philander.
Dordan.
I'll play the fool no more.

Philander.
The fool has lost
His lady-love, and so would lose himself,—
Become a monument on Beauty's grave.
The smith, her father, made of sterner stuff,
Grieves not like thee.

Dordan.
He has a task—I've none.
Jove, when he gave to every mortal man
His occupation, left the poet idle,
That leisure might bring wisdom. Shall he sigh?
Grave muses win no largess. Shall he turn
The laughing sage, or look more grave than sage,
That they who be no sages may laugh more?
They think him that same fool they make themselves.
It boots not—thriftless boon.

Philander.
Methinks this jest
Is far too serious.

Dordan.
Pupil mine, it is
No jest.

Philander.
Not meant a jest?

Dordan.
No, by my troth.
What said I? That the smith, my maiden's sire,
Hath occupation, still denied to me?
Yea, honour also. Even to-day the King
Will consecrate the golden crown he made,
And now will bear aloft, partaker in
The proud solemnity. I may not share it;
Excluded, as profane, from the dread temple
Even of the god who made me what I am—
Divine Apollo. But they know me not;
Know not the man within, that he without
Doth hide.

Philander.
Nay, take not on so.

Dordan.
What, and if
They knew him, 'twould be still the same. Yes, if
The poet in his loftiest attributes
Appeared, in small regard would he be held.
Shut from the temple? A time comes, when the poet,
Free-born of soul, the zealot shall prohibit
A niche i' the national temple for his statue.
An evil day for both.

Philander.
Grief for thy maiden
Hath changed to sorrow for thyself alone.

Dordan.
One grief has taken both, myself and her.
From court excluded first, and now from sanctuary,
No business for me in the world is left.
This second grief is parcel of the first,
Which first slew her. Though lowly was my place,
Still 'twas a courtly office, and, poor girl,
She prided on the courtier in the jester,
And pined herself away in the disgrace
Of his dismissal, fading day by day,
Until no bloom was left upon her cheek,
And the pale rose was withered with the red.

Philander.
She died of melancholy—so wilt thou?

Dordan.
Nay, I have made me business. Seest thou not
My travelling cloak is on? I've been a journeying—
I love my King, my country, and my God,
Howbeit neglected, or however wronged.
I've news—sad news for Britain. Now, my boy,
A bargain with you. Soon the palace gates
Will ope and let the long procession forth
That shall attend this day's solemnity,
The consecration of the golden Crown.

Philander.
What then?

Dordan.
I'll follow thee to the temple, though
Forbid myself to enter. Sooth to tell,
I'd rather wait without. Attend, Philander,
My motions at the gate. Be at the porch;
Should I absent me for a time, fear not,
But watch my coming back. What I've to tell,
Mayhap, shall much import.

Philander.
I shall obey.

Dordan.
Retire. The train come forth. The King, the Queen,
And all the court, adore the golden crown,
Though worth but half of what the iron swayed.

[Music. Enter, in procession, Smith bearing the golden crown, &c., as in the next scene, and then exeunt. Dordan and Philander follow. Loud music.]