 | The Italian Wife |  |
SCENE I.
—A Rampart.Enter Sanzio, Pablo, and Frankendall.
SANZIO.
This is my bound-stone, gentlemen. The soldier,
Despite his macaw's coat and peacock's plumes,
Must sometimes, as the gayest fowls will do,
Keep to his cage. Upon the eastern rampart,
If you go on—for there I've seen him walk—
Perchance you'll find Count Beltran.
FRANKENDALL.
Thank you, sir;
Your pains already have outgone our need;
2
Though haply in this dancing time such matters
Are lightly overstepp'd.—Signor, how say you?
These feasts are excellent to fill up scars;
It is a thriving time—is't not? for soldiers,
Whose hour of pleasure's bought with twelvemonth's toil,
As dear as sweet, and not more sweet than scarce?—
This is a lusty service you are in,
And like to last.
SANZIO.
Signor, I wish it may.
FRANKENDALL.
Nay, pardon us, sir; there are no rivals here—
None of those gallants who will wish men joy
E'en in the hope of making cuckolds of them.
We blame you not; for we are old enough
To fare well, nor cry “roast-meat!”
SANZIO.
Sir!
PABLO.
Come, comrade,
We are no spies; and yet you're in the right.
“Hush!” is the primal virtue of a court,
3
A man had better have a roving wife,
Than keep a gadding tongue.
SANZIO.
Signor, you're merry,
But not less wise—'Tis the best dog at court
Who runs the trail, yet never once gives mouth.
FRANKENDALL.
Well, sir, what we would say might be proclaim'd
At th'market cross. Florence, we say, is merry,
And long may't be so; and long live the Prince!
And may he still, to our high-blooded Princess,
Prove a most gentle husband!
SANZIO.
Gentle?—Ay,
That will he.—Signor, to be plain with you,
Long live the Prince say I!—It is my duty,
Both as a soldier and a citizen.
Yet if a man may pray for any change
In his liege lord, why Sanzio would make bold
To wish him more o' the first.
PABLO.
How say you?
4
Sir,
My lord, Ignatio, is a prince, most noble—
A soul impregnate with all gentle qualities—
Clad in all learning that adorns a man—
Set off with every courtesy—(albeit,
I speak but as a soldier, and so take me)—
He is a man that to a tale of love
Will yield a sigh; that to a tale of pity
Hath ready tears in payment; and will listen,
Enraptured, to the lutanist nightingale
That charms, at eve, with many a moonlight cadence,
The fairy-haunted Arno. But he'll shrink
From a hand-stirring tale of war or strife,
As doth the maid whose mother never chid her
Beyond a cloudy look or ominous finger.—
Now these are worthies peace builds statues to,
But under whom our faulchions still are apt
To gather rust; ay, and our cloaks wax old
With goodly household wear the while; God wot,
No very tiptoe prospect for a soldier!
FRANKENDALL.
Pshaw!—Man, ne'er revel in these black forebodings.
5
Blood, body, bones; ay, plumes and sword and all;
And then grace after meat!—Trust me, impossible!
Dooms-day is none so near. Pooh! cheer up, comrade;
Why, our high-spirited Princess,—to whom Heaven
Grant large increase of beauty, and of children,
All mettled like their mother,—shall find out
Rare wars for him; ne'er fear it.
SANZIO.
Truly, sir,
There's some hope that way.—Well, old tedious Time,
When the commencement is well nigh forgotten,
Shall haply condescend to tell the end,
As prosers wont to do.—Your pardon, gentlemen;
I'm signall'd.
FRANKENDALL.
Sir, good morrow. To the eastward
You say we'll find Count Beltran. Thank you, Signor.
'Tis time we met his highness.
[Exeunt.
| The Italian Wife | |