 | Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti |  |
SCENE III.
[The Ramparts at night. Enter Sforza and Rossano.]ROSSANO.
She's loving in her nature, and methought
Seem'd griev'd when you came forth!
I should have thought so,
But that I had some private information
She lov'd another!
ROSSANO.
You're perhaps abused!
SFORZA.
Nay—nay—how should she love me? I'm well on
To my meridian, see you!—a rough soldier—
Who never learn'd the courtly phrase of love.
And she—the simplest maiden in a cot,
Is not more tender-eyed, nor has a heart
Apter to know love's lesson ere 'tis time.
She's loved ere now, Rossano!
ROSSANO.
Haply so—
Yet be not rude too rashly.
SFORZA.
Rude! I'll make
This forced link that policy puts on her
Loose as a smoke-curl! She shall know no master,
And be no slave for me!
ROSSANO.
You'll not neglect her!
SFORZA.
The sun of woman's world is love, Rossano!
Trouble her sky, there rises oftentimes
A crescent moon of memory, whose light
Makes the dark pathway clear again. Bianca's
May have gone down for me! I'll be no cloud
To mar the moon as well.
ROSSANO.
Stand by—there comes
A footfall this way. (They stand aside.)
[Enter Pasquali, hiccupping, and talking to himself.]
PASQUALI.
That wine was grown on Vesuvius. That's the reason it makes such an eruption. If it breaks out o' the top o' my head now—as I think it will—for it gets hotter and hotter—I shall know if wit be in the brains or the belly.
ROSSANO,
(aside.)
Stay—my Lord! This is Pasquali, whose verses
Bianca sometimes sings to her lute. Ten to one now
but you may gather from his drunkenness if Bianca
loves another.
(Rossano comes forward.)
Good even,
Master Pasquali!
PASQUALI.
That's an every day phrase—this is holiday!
ROSSANO.
A merry good even then!
Ay—that's better! For we're all merry—except the bride. And that's the way of it.
ROSSANO.
What's the way of it?
PASQUALI.
See here! Who is it that never weeps at a funeral?
ROSSANO.
You shall tell me.
PASQUALI.
The dead man, that hath most cause.
ROSSANO.
And what hath that to do with a bridal?
PASQUALI.
A great deal. Of all people at a bridal, who should be most merry? Why, the bride! Now I have just left a bride that is sad enough for a funeral.
ROSSANO.
For what cause, think you?
PASQUALI.
There are some things which can have but one cause. There's but one cause for drunkenness, and there's but one for grief on a wedding-day.
And what's that?
PASQUALI.
Wine—causes drunkenness!
ROSSANO.
And what causes grief in a bride?
PASQUALI.
Want of love for the bridegroom.
ROSSANO.
How know you that, sir?
PASQUALI.
Listen to in-spi-ra-tion!
“When first young Lionel did catch mine eye,
“Sforza, the valiant, pass'd unheeded by!”
ROSSANO.
Villain! these are thine own lying verses!
PASQUALI,
(pulling out his sword.)
The figures of speech are lies of verse. But if thou
sayest it is a lie that Bianca loves Lionel best, thou liest
in prose, and so, come on!
(Attacks Rossano, and
Sforza comes forward, and strikes up their swords.)
SFORZA.
Get home, thou drunkard! Come away, Rossano.
He writes what's palatable, and but echoes
Sarpellione told me so before.
We'll to the field and our old mistress, glory.
Come on—we'll talk of battles and forget her.
[Exeunt.
PASQUALI.
Fighting's not my vocation; but I have an itching that way, and I'll after him. Halloo! Were there two men? I think there were two. The last man called me a drunkard! That's no offence! a poet may be a drunkard! But “villain!”—That's incompatible, and must be prick'd back. Halloo!
[Exit.
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |