University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden. Moonlight. Lara and Beatrice.
LARA.
The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice!
It hangs i' the heaven, ripe and ready to drop,
Like a great golden orange—

BEATRICE.
Excellent!
Breathe not the priceless simile abroad,
Or all the poetlings in Mantua
Will cut the rind of 't! Like an orange? yes,
But not so red, Count. Then it hath no stem,
And ripened out of nothing.

LARA.
Critical!
Make thou a neater poesy for the moon.

BEATRICE.
Now, as 't is hidden by those drifts of cloud,
With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark,
'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east,
I' the cleft side of a mountain.

LARA.
Not unlike!

BEATRICE.
And that reminds me—speaking of jewels—love,
There is a set of turquoise at Malan's,
Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace—ah!
If they were mine!

LARA.
And so they should be, dear,
Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp
To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice,
All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours,
Although your hand is heavy now with gems
That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness.
Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose
Into a bud again?

BEATRICE.
You love me not.

LARA.
A coquette's song.

BEATRICE.
I sing it.

LARA.
A poor song.

BEATRICE.
You love me not, or love me over-much,
Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!
You do not deck me as becomes our state,
For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes
Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest—
A precious set! You're jealous, Sir!

LARA.
Not I.
I love you.

BEATRICE.
Why, that is as easy said
As any three short words; takes no more breath
To say, ‘I hate you.’ What, Sir, have I lived
Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife,
And do not know your follies? I will wager
(If I could trap my darling into this!)
[Aside.
The sweetest kisses I know how to give
Against the turquoise, that within a month
You'll grow so jealous—and without a cause,
Or with a reason thin as window-glass—
That you will ache to kill me!

LARA.
Will you so?
And I—let us clasp hands and kiss on it.

BEATRICE.
Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss—nay, nay!
I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.

LARA.
And I'll not lose the forfeit.

BEATRICE.
We shall see.
BEATRICE enters the house singing.
There was an old earl and he wed a young wife,
Heigh ho, the bonny.
And he was as jealous as Death is of Life,
Heigh ho, the nonny!
Kings saw her, and sighed;
And wan lovers died,
But no one could win the bright honey
That lay on the lips of the bonny
Young bride,
Until Cupid, the rover, a-hearting would go,
Then—heigh ho!

[Exit.
LARA.
She hath as many fancies as the wind
Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles,
Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea!
Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess.
To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow,
With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death—
With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay,
But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw
So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world!
Jealous? I am not jealous—though they say
Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet,
I would I had not wagered. It implies
Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile
And let the cool air fan me.
[Paces the balcony
'Twas not wise.
It's only Folly with its cap and bells
Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too.
What if, to pique me, she should over-step
The pale of modesty, and give sweet eyes
(I could not bear that, nay, not even that!)
To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been
And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close.
There, now, I wrong her. She is wild enough,
Playing the empress in her honeymoons:
But untamed falcons will not wear the hood
Nor sit on the wrist, at bidding. Yet if she,
To win the turquoise of me, if she should—
Oh! curséd jewels! would that they were hung
About the glistening neck of some mermaiden
A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!