University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Hall in Orontio's House.
King, Orontio, Rosalie, Blanche, unmasked. Numerous Guests, Male and Female, all masked. Music playing a Waltz.
King.
Music compels quick motion in the blood,
Making slow age revolt against its slowness.
These dancing notes bring sad sweet memories,
Gifts from free youth to yoked maturity.
But for this daily mixture in life's caldron
Of was with is, age were as stale and sour
As pools deserted by the brooks that feed them.
Great Nature is so bounteous provident,
She sets strong eddies in our downward current,
Bending life's waters back toward their young fonts,
That we live o'er our virgin days in offspring.
My thoughts now think more with my son than self.
Is it not so with you, Orontio?

Oron.
My liege,
'Tis even so: I breathe but for my daughter,
And sometimes fear that losing her, I should
Weary of life.

King.
Still, thou wilt lose her; for,
Her time is almost come, when she, transplanted
From the close hot bed of paternal love,
Must grow out doors, and face, as best she can
With her own competence, the blasts and frosts
Of the bleak world's unceasing winter. She
Is marriageable, and being beautiful
And high, she will be married. And 'tis best
That we—who can not war 'gainst Nature's needs,
Without rebellious danger to our cause—
Make treaty with strong Nature's wilfulness,
And thus, in th' act of resignation stamp—
By one deep pressure of authority—
Our cooler judgment on young passion's heats.
Among our topmost nobles have you found,
Orontio, one worthy of Rosalie?

Oron.
I have not found because I have not sought.
My kinsman Conrad and myself are pledged,
By mutual contract early registered,
To tighten ties of chance with ties of choice.
His eldest son, Alphonso, and my daughter
Are by us plighted. He is here to-night,
To scan young Rosalie, himself unscanned.

King.
The hottest look, even of envy, would—
Like floods of fiery dawn loosed on red May-buds—
Inflame her beauties into deeper glow.
Alphonso is of noble stem, and Rumor
Echoes his name in lordly notes of praise.—
Let's walk awhile before I take my leave.—

Tanc.
Who is't that speaks so long to Rosalie?

Rog.
I'll tell thee if thou'lt first tell me, who is
The blissful wretch that talks so much to Blanche.

Tanc.
To lift that mask I'd give a month of life.

Rog.
We profit most by visors; and for me,
I love this foolery for itself, so like
The foolish world, where men go always masked,
Seeking their ends through thin hypocrisies.
This is a private theatre, whose parts
Are each played perfectly, because so dully.
All here's theatrical because 'tis true,
And true because it is theatrical.—

Tanc.
Lady, your privilege is your deprivation.

Ros.
That it deprives me of your phrase's meaning?

Tanc.
Your eyes are stars making night beautiful,
Yet seeing not the beauty that they make.

Ros.
Your words have caught the stars' mysteriousness.

Tanc.
For looking while I speak, they are enskyed.
But words are weak; mine stagger 'neath their load.

Ros.
And what is that?

Tanc.
A heart so full of sighs
It has no room for joys that would o'erfill it.

Ros.
A traitor heart, to let its enemies in
And keep out friends.

Tanc.
It hugs lean sighs as friends,
Making of pain its petted biting comrade.

Ros.
A foolish heart, to love its misery.

Tanc.
Folly and wo are ever close of kin;
And so 'twill not be comforted or counselled.

Ros.
A stubborn heart that will not take kind counsel.

Tanc.
Condemn it not till you have counselled it.

Ros.
Who needs advice is prone to take the bad.

Tanc.
Too true; and yours, I fear, would not be good.

Ros.
Why ask it then?

Tanc.
Because, if bad—I mean
Bad by its impotence to cure my ill—
I should not follow it.

Ros.
Why do you think
My counsel would be bad?

Tanc.
Because I fear so.
One of love's follies is, to war with hope.

Ros.
Sir Knight, is this the first time we have spoken?

Tanc.
Fair lady, I could swear that never till now
Heard I your voice's full melodiousness,
Nor saw the perfect brilliance of your face;
And swearing so, I should not be forsworn.

Servant.
My lady, Lord Orontio bids me say,
There are new guests who would be greeted.—

Manfred.
I pray you, sir, the lady you just spoke with,
Is she Orontio's niece?

Rog.
You love the lady?

Manf.
I think I do, and shall be sure I do,
If once assured she is Orontio's niece.

Rog.
'Tis then the minister who is your first love,
His niece your second. You're an office-seeker?

Manf.
No, sir; I am Count Manfred of Palermo.

Rog.
Sir Count, the lady is Orontio's daughter.

Manf.
More worthy still of love than even his niece.
I'm in your debt; tell me how I can pay you.

Rog.
I live to serve my friends: let me be yours.
The rich and noble Manfred of Palermo—

Manf.
You know me then;—

Rog.
Sir Count, attaint me not
In your high thoughts, taxing me ignorant.

Manf.
I crave your pardon. Speech and vesture both
Proclaim the gentleman. Be you my friend.
You know the lady well? You have her ear?
Now, sir, were she my wife—

Rog.
Orontio's daughter,—

Manf.
The same. Were she my wife, there were not then
A higher, happier man in Sicily,
Than I myself, Count Manfred, save the King.

Rog.
And prince.

Manf.
The prince is not enough a prince.
He is too learned, and lacks showiness.
Then he affects not princely things, as feasts
And horses, priests, pomps, soldiers.—But the lady:
Use, sir, your tongue for me. I see you know me.
Convey your knowledge to her ear. Farewell.
I go to please her father with this theme.

[Exit.
Rog.
Convey your knowledge to her ear: ha! ha! ha!
Oh! you have missed a prodigy.

Tanc.
What's that?

Rog.
A creature that confounds philosophy:
A fellow whose curled head would float in vacuo.
His brain insults the laws of gravitation,
So gaseous buoyant 'tis with vanity.
He's gone to ask Orontio for his daughter.

Tanc.
For Rosalie?

Rog.
No; Blanche, whom he believes—
With his clear insight trusting me—the daughter.

Tanc.
This may breed mischief.

Rog.
Sport, and nothing more.

Tanc.
Whenever I've come near to Rosalie,
There's one who has so tracked me as he were
My very shadow, cast by light from her.
My eyes would not play hypocrite, but at him,
Ere I could rule them, threw defiant glances.
Roger, this masquerading irks and chafes me.

Rog.
To win sweet Blanche, I'd mask it for a year—

Ros.
Ha, gentlemen, when did you come from Naples?

Tanc.
We are discovered.

Rog.
But the half of us.—
Fair vagabonds, we came with you; for Naples,
Wanting the fruitful sunshine of your looks,
Grew to a bladeless desert in a night.

Ros.
Sir, I perceive, our air of Sicily
Rusts not your speech.

Rog.
Light is rust's enemy;
And thus are we kept polished by your lustre.

Blan.
Sir Knight, your tongue speaks sunbeams.

Ros.
Moonbeams, cousin;
His light is lunar, caught from us, his Sun.
But now, sir Moon, come shine with your own beams,
Unmasking you for supper.

Rog.
Nay, not I.

Ros.
Your reason.

Rog.
Folly masked is not so foolish
As unmasked. I would neither see nor show
Folly quite naked. Are you satisfied?

Ros.
Entirely—with the folly of your reason;
And if your friend hath not good freight of wisdom
Wherewith to ballast such big bales of folly,
You'll founder ere you end your voyagings.

Tanc.
Think me not vain; but I, in truth believe,
That I am wise.

Ros.
You have then wiser reasons
For wisdom than your comrade has for his folly.

Tanc.
The wisest, and your tongue it is that speaks them.
Each syllable of yours attests me wise.

Ros.
[To Roger.]
Interpret.

Rog.
Nay the proverb bars me.

Ros.
The proverb!

Rog.
Ay, “a wise speech sleeps in a foolish ear.”

Blan.
Cousin, we must begone. If, gentlemen,
You will not in to supper, we must leave you.

Tanc.
Think not we are discourteous; but we have
In Syracuse a mission of great import,
The which demands we should as yet be secret.

Ros.
Good night; and prosper in your embassy.

Tanc.
Your good will's worth more than a king's credentials.
[Exeunt Rosalie and Blanche.
Roger, my spirits flag and I grow heavy.

Rog.
Love genders thought faster than rain doth grass,
And thought is serious, and seriousness
Grows heavy if it lasts; so, when it does,
Tracing its sprightly pedigree to love,
Your spirits will remount. This is no time
For doltish melancholy. Our best wit
We need, and whetted to its keenest edge,
To shiver the entanglements of custom.

Tanc.
Your mettle kindles mine, and I am purged
Already of the lees of cloudy fancies.

Rog.
Our task is subtler than oft falls to princes;
To compass liberty through joy, and joy
Through love. Then with the three a diadem
To build worth all the crowns of tedious kings.
Now let's devise the measures for success,
And counterplot the plots of adversaries.

[Exeunt.