University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The outer yard of an inn on the road to Mirandola.
Beatrice enters from the Inn.
Bea.

I thought I heard the trampling of horses.
Marco!—There are so few travellers who pass this road,
that really we must make the most of all who come.
Hark! that was certainly a horse's step.—Marco!—
There, again: somebody is certainly coming. (She listens.)

Marco enters.
Marco.

By Saint Peter, this will be a rare day to
go to sleep in. There'll be nothing awake to-day but
the sun, and my wife. Why, Beatrice, what's the matter?
Are you bent double before your time? She
looks like Fine-ear, in the Fairy tale, who listens to hear
the grass grow. Beatrice!

Beatrice.

Hark! don't you hear?

Marco.

Hear? no: and yet—Ha! I do hear something

now. Some travellers, I suppose: yes, they are
now almost close to us. They stop. Ah! there they are
at the end of the orchard.—Go in, go in and prepare
breakfast for them. There never yet was a traveller
who had'nt a good appetite. (Beatrice goes in.)
A
good clever girl that, tho' she talks more than she need
at times; but, what!—there's no one perfect. Now if
these gallants should be coming to the merry-making
at Court, which was held yesterday, in honor of the
Duke's marriage that happened some time ago, why
they'll be a day too late, that's all.—So, who is this?

Andrea enters.
Andrea.

Are you the landlord of this house?

Marco.

I am.

Andrea.

The Duke's son, Lord Guido, is here on his
way home from Naples. Get some refreshment ready,
and be quick.

Marco.

The Duke's son?

Andrea.

Yes.—Why what's the matter? The Duke's
son, I said.

Marco.

What he who died?

Andrea.

Died!—Nonsense! how could he be here if
he died? he was only wounded.

Marco.

Not dead? that's odd. Is he coming to the
Court feast?

Andrea.

We've heard of no feast. What is it for?
Is any body married, or dead?

Marco.
Hush! your master's here.—Beatrice!

Guido, Casti, and Julio enter.
Julio.
Ah! Signior Casti, you were gallant ever,
At home and in the field.—Here, fellow; shew
Our servants where the horses may be housed.

Beatrice enters.
Marco.
I will, my lord.

Casti.
Take care of mine,—a grey.

Guido.
This is the prettiest girl that I have seen
Since I left Naples.

Bea.
Oh! my lord.

Casti.
You have forgot poor Bayard.

Guido.
No, indeed. Good fellow,
Go with this man, and he will show you where
A berry-brown horse is panting, wet and white
With foam.—Carlo's gone onwards?

Serv.
Yes, my lord.

Guido.
That horse—he is a friend of mine, (the best
That ever bore a man thro' blood and death;)
Take excellent care of him as you expect
Requital.
[Marco and Servant exeunt.
Thanks, good Casti, many thanks:
Old Bayard too should thank you if he could.

Julio.
Now, hostess, we are hungry travellers: go
And strip your larder of it's best: we come
With desperate thoughts against it.

Guido.
Pretty hostess!
Are you the hostess of this pleasant place?

Beat.
Yes, my lord, yes.

Casti.
You make her blush.

Julio.
No more.—Good hostess, hie thou in and quickly make
The best of preparation: we shall be
With thee anon.

[Beatrice exit.
Guido.
We shall come to thee soon.

Julio.
Why, my dear lord, this peasant seems to take
Your fancy.

Guido.
Oh! I like a pretty face
At court or in a cottage.

Casti.
And in camp?

Guido.
No; there one's thoughts are taught to swerve
From their more natural bent.—I hate the camp.
I hate it's noise and stiff parade,—it's blank
And empty forms, and stately courtesy.
Where between bows and blows, a smile and a stab,
There's scarce a moment. Soldiers always live
In idleness or peril: both are bad.

Casti.
I fear that you are right, indeed.

Julio.
How! right?

Guido.
I am.—
Give me an intellectual nobler life;
Not fighting like the herded elephants, which,
Beckon'd by some fierce slave, go forth to war,
And trample in the dust their fellow brute.
But let me live amongst high thoughts and smiles
As beautiful as love; with grasping hands,
And a heart that flutters with diviner life
Whene'er my step is heard.

Julio.
Why, what is this?

Casti.
A picture of a happier lot, dear friend,
Than you and I have known.

Julio.
Had I not seen
You both fight bravely,—better than myself,
I should have doubted you.—What! rail at war—
Bright eyed Bellona?—Oh! for shame, for shame!
I must forswear your company, my Lord.
For me, I like all folks who follow war,
Down to the very suttler: I am even
Friend to the commissary.

Guido.
Ay, when you run
In debt.

Casti.
With empty pockets.

Guido.
Or—or when
He feasts his friends.

Casti.
Or falls in love, and wishes
To give a trifle to some girl.

Guido.
Indeed, he is too much addicted—while I speak,
I grieve to talk thus of him—

Julio.
Moral Lord!
Oh! this is well. Go on; and, Signior, you
Who smile but once a week, (then not for joy,)—
*You smile now; yet, you must remember ('tis
Scarce two years since,) at Baiæ, a pale girl,
Who lived so much in private?

Casti.
Spare her: nay,
She was unfortunate.

Julio.
And you?

Guido.
Was kind.
I know the story: touch not on it now.
It is a melancholy tale, fit only
For the fire-side and winter: some dull day,
When the clouds leave a shadow on your brow,
I'll tell it to you.

Casti.
Be content; I was
Her friend,—a father, but no more; believe 't.

Julio.
Must I? Well, be it:†—but this hostess stays
A long time 'ere she summons us, methinks.
If I eat double 'tis no fault of mine.
I may as well go in,—and—

Guido.
But be civil.

Julio.
Civil? I'll be as loving.

Casti.
Ay, and brief
In your discourse.

Guido.
I shall keep watch o'er you.

Julio.
And th'hostess?

Guido.
Ay; over both wolf and lamb.

[Julio exit into the inn.
Casti.
I never saw you in so gay a mood:
Have you heard news?

Guido.
No;—no.

Casti.
I fear I've marred
Your gaiety.

Guido.
Ah! no: 'twas but a trick
To cheat away sad folly.—I have heard
Nothing: my courier never, as you know,
Returned: my letters are unanswer'd:—From
My father (yet he was kind once) I might have borne
This fearful silence; but from her—Oh! her
Whom like a star I worshipped.—Pshaw! my eyes
Are like a girl's to-day. I've no doubt
But all is well.

Casti.
I hope so.

Guido.
Ay; I hope.
Why should I fear?—you do not fear? you know
Nothing, good Casti, of my love?

Casti.
Nothing: be calm.

Guido.
I know not how it is;
But a foreboding presses on my heart
At times, until I sicken.*—I have heard,
And from men learned, that before the touch
(The common, coarser touch) of good or ill,—
That oftentimes a subtler sense informs
Some spirits of the approach of ‘things to be.’
Fate comes before it's time; like Hope or Fear
Reverting on the soul, with surer aim.

Casti.
What more!†

Guido.
Oh! I've a deep dull sense of pain to come
Clinging upon my heart.

Casti.
So lovers talk;
And feel, perhaps.* Suspense to them is as
A hideous ghost, changing it's shape for ever.
Thus in wild evenings children's fears, you know,
Shape devils out of shadows.†—Oh! be gay.
Morning will soon be here, and she you sigh for
Will smile these dreams away.

Guido.
May it be so!
Let's talk no more of this at present.—Where
Is Julio?

Casti.
Likeliest by the cottage fire,
Helping the pretty hostess.

Guido.
Let us go.
You think, then, she—

Casti.
Oh! I think
Not of her; save that she is fair and true.
Stifle these fears: why, in some three hours hence
You'll see her

Guido.
So I shall, indeed.

Casti.
Let's drink
Her health in purest water.

Guido.
No: in wine.

Casti.
In wine then, be it. High Falernian?

Curio.
Ay,
In nectar. Why, methinks, these dreams of mine
Are almost banished.

Casti.
With yourself remains
The power to do't. Be lord of your own mind.
The dread of evil is the worst of ill;
*A tyrant, yet a rebel, dragging down
The clear-eyed judgment from its spiritual throne,
And leagued with all the base and blacker thoughts
To overwhelm the soul.† But come, our friend
Waits, and—the pretty hostess.

Guido.
There: my hand
Is firm as 'tis in battle.

Casti.
So it is.
Now then: nay, go you first. I'll follow.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Garden of the Duke's Palace.
Isidora, Isabella, Hypolito.
Isab.
Cheer thee, dear sister: nay—these mournful looks
Shame all our smiles.

Hyp.
Dear aunt!

Isab.
Were I the Duke,
I should be jealous of your grief.

Isid.
Madam!

Isab.
Indeed.—A jealous thing is happiness,—
And delicate too, for round it all must be
Warm like itself and pleasant, else it flies;
Like summer birds from winter.

Isid.
Yesterday,—
It's ceremony and toil have worn me down.
Forgive me for it: I am scarcely used
As yet to your court splendors.—I shall be
A Duchess shortly, such as you could wish.
I was not born, you know, to princely pomp,
And it sits ill on me. Hypolito!
Why are you sad, dear boy? I thought I was
The only mocker here.

Isab.
'Wake, dreaming child!
Your aunt, the Duchess, speaks to you.

Hyp.
Dear Lady. (Takes Isidora's hand.)


Isab.
A pretty gallant: so,—in time he'll break
A promise smoothly.

Isid.
I hope not; yet there are
None of his faithless sex who cannot feign.

Isab.
Except my brother?

Isid.
Ay: except the Duke.
But come, Hypolito; I never hear
Now how your falcon flies, nor of the barb
Your uncle gave you.—How is this? it was
A true Arabian, was it not?

Hyp.
Indeed
I scarcely know. I have not rid of late.

Isab.
He keeps his chamber, like a languid girl,
And reads romance.—“Indeed, I scarcely know—”
Why that was lisped forth like a girl.—For shame!
What do you know then, sirrah?

Hyp.
Oh! I know
By heart, by heart, those gentle stories which
My Aunt (before she was my Aunt) gave to me,
And told me with a smile, such as I never
Saw on her face again,—‘These lines were strung
‘By frenzied Tasso whom a princess scorned,
‘And these flew forth from Ariosto's quill,
‘And these sad Petrarch, who lamented long
‘Laura his love, once writ; and some there were
‘Inscribed by great Boccaccio's golden pen,
‘Mirthful and mournful, fit for every heart.’

Isab.
A pretty list: and is this all you read?
Oh! I must look to you.—The father comes;
In haste, it seems.
Gheraldi enters.
Well, father?

Gher.
The fair blessing of the day
Rest on you all.—Madam, my duty bends
Before you.

Isid.
I am thankful, father, for
Your blessing.

Isab.
Thanks, Gheraldi; but you came
In haste, Sir: how was this? Have any news
Reached our so quiet place?

Hyp.
I do not like the book you gave me, father.

Isab.
Silence!—You do not answer, father. How!

Isid.
Come here, Hypolito, come.

[Isidora and Hypolito talk apart.
Isab.
In your look
I read a—something that I would not read.
The Duchess hears us not; you need not drop
Your eyes thus cautiously. Speak freely to me;
What is't?

Gher.
Be patient, Madam: you will need
Great store of patience. Guido—

Isab.
Ha; speak lower.—Hypolito!

Hyp.
Talk kindly to me.

Isab.
Well;
Kiss me, and now begone: the father has
Some words for me. Perhaps, dear sister, you—

Isid.
I was about to leave you.

Isab.
Do not think
I wish that: but some business, such as you
Would think but tedious, calls me hence.

Isid.
Farewell!

[Isidora and Hypolito exeunt.
Isab.
Father, if I can read your mind, (and now
I ought to read it,) you have news will call
My spirit into action:—Is it so?
Well! I can act. How I can think, you know.
How I will give my cunning force, and weave
The subtle threads of many a project 'round
My victim's brain, thou—thou shalt see.

Gher.
I have
Not told my news.

Isab.
I see it 'ere you speak.
It is of Guido: he has then discovered?—

Gher.
Not so.

Isab.
Then all is well.

Gher.
Why, still not so.
He has not yet discovered—

Isab.
Father, speak.
Am I to guess and guess and still mistake,
While you, with all the tidings on your tongue,
Keep all from me! What you know, boldly speak.

Gher.
Lord Guido, then, is well: that is some news;
For when we last heard of him, he lay sick
Upon his bed at Naples.

Isab.
Yes,—go on.

Gher.
He knows not of his father's marriage yet:
But being impatient at the silence which
His Isidora, and his father kept,
He left the South (forgetting smaller ills)
And comes straight to Mirandola!

Isab.
Indeed!
He must be stopped.

Gher.
He should have been, had I
Known of his coming; but he is here already.

Isab.
What! not arrived?

Gher.
In two hours hence he'll stand
Before his father.

Isab.
Has the Duke yet learned
His coming.

Gher.
No: I've kept the secret; but
It must be known, and quickly.

Isab.
And those letters—
Those letters of the Duke; they never reached
Guido at Naples—of this you are sure!

Gher.
Never; nor those he wrote unto the Duke,
Except that one first telling that he lived;
(Dead Gaspero was an honest knave to us—)
I hold them safe: for in them lies my life.

Isab.
Why then go bravely to the Duke;
And tell him Guido comes: tell him, at once,
That all the bright tears Isidora shed,
Dropped for his son.

Gher.
Ha! but I cautioned her
(Because the Duke was jealous) when she heard
That he still lived and loved her, to conceal
The name of Guido.—How shall this be answered?

Isab.
Who can betray? Why did she marry him?

Gher.
Nay,—'twas her mother's want—

Isab.
Well, well: now go
Unto the Duke (I know his humour well)
And tell this. Of his marriage you can say—

Gher.
What?

Isab.
You can hint that haply Guido may
Clothe him in ignorance,—perhaps pretend
He wrote to say he lived, and so forth: ha?
Tell him of Guido's friendship for those men—
Those men who did rebel: and you can shew
How good a casuist you are, father, when
A doubt springs up; and you can pour a balm
(You have both sting and honey, like the bee,)
If there be need, and—pshaw! I school my master.

Gher.
You flatter, gracious lady: you are still
A keen displomatist: you surely cannot
Need my poor service.

Isab.
What is this?—Gheraldi!
What is it you ask?

Gher.
Nothing: no, tho' you said—

Isab.
I say so still: my interest at Rome
Is great as ever. You shall have, be sure,
The Cardinal's hat, when old Galotti dies.

Gher.
Have I your word for this?

Isab.
Sir, be content;
I give my honourable word.

Gher.
Enough.

Isab.
And now farewell. Be careful, Sir;
Ay, and successful, and the conclave shall
Have its most subtle spirit to boast of yet.

[Exit.
Gher.
Dear lady, fare you well.—Now for the Duke.
He is as shifting as the April wind:
And how to break this news I know not. Guido
By this has got my letter, and knows that
His love is here; no more. And now—and now,
Shall I go on? Pshaw! rather shall I doubt?
Do I not see those earthly gods mine own,
Power, wealth, high reputation, (holy cheat!)
Like dazzling sun-beams on my stricken eye
They blind, yet lead me onwards. I shall be
A Cardinal: Aye, Pope perhaps. What more
Need I to teach me wisdom? Now for the Duke.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Duke's private chamber.
Duke and Isidora discovered—the Duke writing.
Curio waiting.
Duke.
Here; send this pacquet, my good Curio,
Unto our brother Mantua: this dispatch
Unto Modena. You have nothing else
To speak of?

Curio.
Nothing, gracious Sir.

Duke.
Farewell.
Yet stay, if—no, 'twas nothing: fare you well.
[Curio exit.
Forgive me that I thus neglect you, love.
—Why, my dear Isidora, yesterday
Has worn you to a shadow.

Isid.
Oh! not so.

Duke.
In faith it has.—Dear girl, I know you hate
These empty pageantries. Jove! so do I.
I'd rather be in battle, and weighed down
By steel and iron than by these idle gauds.
But we must play our part, my sweet one, in
This silly world. Could I order things here,
Half of the moon I'd waste in war: the rest
I'd give to Cupid.

Isid.
So: not all to love then?

Duke.
Why, no—yet I am wrong; for Oh! with you
Who could desert the chamber for the camp?
Not I. I would be with you ever—ever.

Isid.
That were too long.

Duke.
Too long, my Isidora?

Isid.
Ay: ‘Ever’ is a long time, my dear lord:
Love has no such eternity.

Duke.
Indeed!

Isid.
Indeed, 'tis so. Life even has its end;
And love cannot be longer sure than life.

Duke.
It is: or else 'tis nothing.—Did I think
That in the narrow limit of this world
Sweet love were bound—*Did I fear that beyond
These earthy barriers (which our winged thoughts
Still strive to over-fly, and still in vain,)
Love were no resident,† I would—but you—
You are a traitor to the rose crown'd God.
I'll kiss you in revenge.

Isid.
You should not punish
One who is ignorant only.

Duke.
Punish! How!
Will that be punishment? I said that I
Would kiss you, love.

Isid.
I know it—in revenge.

Duke.
True; in revenge. Revenge is bitter sweet:
And in its rich completion lies as well
Gall as oblivious balm: a paradox
Of passion is revenge. 'Tween you and me,
Fair Isidora, let it never live.

Isid.
I hope not, Sir.

Duke.
It shall not. Mark! I speak
More boldly here than you. I know my heart:
And your's too can I read.

Isid.
What! read my heart?

Duke.
I spoke in jest: you tremble: I am calm
(You see't) as conscious love—or fate—or death.

Isid.
I'm often thus: pray take no heed of it.
You trembled too, I thought.

Duke.
Feel that I do not.

[Puts out his hand.
Isid.
I did not note your hand, but thro' your voice
There ran a tremulous chord which made me—think.

Duke.
Of what?

Isid.
That you were angry: nothing more.

Duke.
Oh! then you far mistake me. I am not
A leaf blown to and fro' by every breath:
I am as stedfast as the oak;—ay, more,
*As little to be shook or turned aside
From my vowed purpose as the based rock,
Which when the blasts of thundering winter tear
The pines away from their strong rifted holds,
Looks calmly as tho' 'twere sun-shine still,—and smiles.†

Isid.
I am glad you are so calm.

Duke.
Why are you glad—why glad
My Isidora? You can ne'er have cause
To dread my anger?

Isid.
Oh! I hope not.

Duke.
You
Could never dread me, Isidora?

Isid.
Never.
For never could I do you wrong, my lord.

Duke.
My own sweet love! Oh! my dear peerless wife!
By the blue sky and all its crowding stars
I love you better—Oh! far better than
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola.
Speak, dearest Isidora, can you love
As I do? Can—but no, no; I shall grow
Foolish if thus I talk. You must be gone
You must be gone, fair Isidora, else
The business of the Dukedom soon will cease.
I speak the truth, by Dian. Even now
Gheraldi waits without (or should) to see me
In faith, you must go: one kiss, and so, away.

Isid.
Farewell, my lord.

Duke.
We'll ride together, dearest,
Some few hours hence.

Isid.
Just as you please; farewell!

[Exit.
Duke.
Farewell! With what a waving air she goes
Along the corridor. How like a fawn;
Yet statelier.—Hark! no sound however soft
(Nor gentlest echo) telleth when she treads;
But every motion of her shape doth seem
Hallowed by silence. Thus did Hebe grow
Amidst the Gods, a paragon; and thus—
Away! I'm grown the very fool of love.

Curio enters.
Curio.
The father—

Duke.
Bid him come.
[Curio exit.
I never saw
My beauty look so well: *the summer light
Becomes her, tho' she shames it, being so fair.
Methinks I've cast full twenty years aside,
And am again a boy. Every breath
Of air that trembles thro' the window bears
Unusual odour.†
Gheraldi enters.
Welcome, father, welcome:
If you have any good to ask, be quick,
For I am bountiful to-day. The tide
Of my free humour cannot last—nor ought,
Else should I soon be beggar'd. What's i'the air?—
Some subtle spirit runs thro' all my veins.
Hope seems to ride this morning on the wind,
And joy outshines the sun. Why, what is this?

Gher.
My gracious lord!

Duke.
Speak out. Your tone is cold
As the ringing sound a footstep strikes from out
The frosted earth. I am like spring, rejoicing.
Father, I hate these mournful moods: I hate 'em.
Be joyful, Sir, or look so.

Gher.
My dear lord,
I have some news, which while this spirit lasts,
I almost fear to tell. 'Twill strike cold on
Your mind, my lord; but—but it must be told.
Your son, my lord,—

Duke.
How! well; go on.

Gher.
Lord Guido will be here, my lord, within
An hour.

Duke.
Again, Sir,—speak again.

Gher.
Your son,
Lord Guido will be here within this hour.

Duke.
I'm glad to hear it.
He uses little ceremony: well!
How learned you this?

Gher.
His courier has arrived,
Who left him scarce two hours ago: he then
Was coming hither strait.

Duke.
Has he not written?

Gher.
He has not; but—(and this indeed seems strange,)
His servant says—tho' this must be surmise—
That his young master still is ignorant of
Your highness' marriage.

Duke.
That's impossible!
I wrote to him twice—more.

Gher.
Yes, Sir; but—

Duke.
But what?
Speak!

Gher.
Did your highness ever hear the name
O'the friend the Duchess mourned so?

Duke.
Never: she
Wished not to tell it; so, altho' my mind
Dislikes such secrets, I have never asked.

Gher.
Lord Guido then never confided his—
Attachment to you?

Duke.
His—his? Never.

Gher.
Never?

Duke.
Never. I feel a faintness o'er me. Never.
Did he—did he—

Gher.
Another time, my lord,
Let's speak of this. As to your son's return—

Duke.
Monk! I must have your answer.

Gher.
Well: I have heard
My lord, that he—

Duke.
I listen: go on.

Gher.
That he
Once loved the Duchess.

Duke.
How! great Heaven! am I
Awake?

Gher.
I would not have disclosed this tale
To your Highness, but—

Duke.
Be silent. Can it be
That he (I know not what I say) has been
Deceived?

Gher.
Your Highness wrote to him before
Your marriage?—No.

Duke.
No; not befor't: we thought
That he was dead; yet when the news (glad news
I thought it,) came that still he lived, I sent
Direct to Naples.

Gher
True; by Gaspero.

Duke.
But wherefore,—nay, how was't you dared conceal
From me that he had loved her? Speak to that

Gher.
I thought it a boyish fancy, soon to change.
Yet that he loved her once, (madly) I can
Avouch.

Duke.
He is not apt to change.

Gher.
Why that—
When first I knew he had not written home,
Struck on my mind. I own it.

Duke.
[aside.]
—Upon mine
It falls as cold as winter. You should not
Have kept it from me. 'Twas a fault.

Gher.
Nay, Sir,—

Duke.
O Heaven! had I but known for whom those tears
Were shed:—but still she weeps: Ah! wherefore still?
He is alive.

Gher.
My lord!

Duke.
Perhaps he comes
Here to reproach or make a shew of grief:
Perhaps—Did you not speak?

Gher.
Yes, Sir; your son—

Duke.
Did I not watch him thro' his headstrong youth,
This fault forgiving and forgetting that—
His friendship with that false Vitelli, whom
I hate as I hate shame—his strange request
For those three rebels (that was never cleared)
Marni, Saletto, Rossi? you know this.

Gher.
If I might but advise—

Duke.
Be dumb, Sir. I
Can be my own good counsel. Did I not
Write, and so kindly too? *Did—did he come
Quite straight from Naples?

Gher.
Yes, my lord; I hear
He only staid at Count Vitelli's house;
And there not long.

Duke.
At Count Vitelli's? He
Can never pass that traitor's den. What spell
Doth drag him there?

Gher.
None that I know of, Sir,
But,† may I now advise? If aught be wrong
Touching Vitelli's friendship with your son.
(Tho' I hope nothing is wrong) or—or if
He loves the lady Isidora still,—

Duke.
Death! thou false monk!—Sir, if your tongue but utter
A word of that—What! love her? love!

Gher.
I meant—

Duke.
You said he loved.

Gher.
Did I? pray pardon me.
This news has ruffled me, my lord. I beg
That you'll forget. My mouth is filled to-day
With errors.

Duke.
Yet should he indeed love her?

Gher.
If then, my lord, your son should but pretend
To love, and urge you to injustice—

Duke.
Ha!
That's well—well thought of. Oh! there's many a knave
About me (that I feel) too ready still
To second old Vitelli's bloody hand.
Can he be foe to me? I will not think it.
Yet I'll be calm, and wary.

Gher.
Some one comes.

[Carlo enters.
Carlo.
Your Highness!

Duke.
Speak!

Carlo.
Lord Guido will be here
Almost—

Duke.
Go to him, good Gheraldi. Leave us.
[Carlo exit.
Receive him, father, and before he comes
To me, inform him (mark if honestly
He take the news,) that I am married.—When
You have told this, say that I wish his presence:
Yet, first announce him; so I may learn how far
His soul is bent to cunning.

Gher.
I am gone.

Duke.
Take good note, Sir.

Gher.
I will.

Duke.
Be sure you do!

[Exeunt separately.