University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Park of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Enter Juranio.
Juranio.
Hail! once again, thou blooming vine-clad bower!
How long is it since the fair mistress' hand
Curled thy soft tendrils to this artful flow,
Moulding the straggling wildness of thy humors
Into such harmony? By your leave, rose.
[Plucks a rose.]
These crumpled features tell some dainty hand
Has pressed into the cramped and knotted bud,
To force its backward nature into flower.
Say, have you told her, treacherous confidant—
For you are full of whispering winds, that tell
To me, a late companion, many a tale
Of the gray East, where all your kindred speak
The lover's low, close language—have you told
How oft your leafy screen has covered me,
While she, the mistress of us both, swept by,
Sad, but majestic? Wherefore is she sad?
My tongue runs tripping, but my heart is lead.
O, Count Juranio, what a fool art thou,
To waste thy manhood on a maid who cares
No atom for thy countship! To lie hidden,
Hour after hour, upon the dank, rough ground,
Merely to catch the glimmer of a girl—
A girl who casts the pearl of her affection
Before that swinish usurer, Marsio!
By heaven, 't is villanous! And were it not—
So much her seeming gives report the lie—
That I believe this marriage forced upon her,
By the parental usage of our land,
I'd fly her as infectious. What, what! she
To prop a selfish dotard's crumbling house
With the untimely ruins of her youth!
To spin a few thin moments for his age
Out of her heart's blood! Suffer worse than death,
That one old man may crawl down to his grave
With a stuffed pocket! By the blessed saints,
Blood has no claim upon her! She is mad,
To nurse the childish folly of old age
To such portentous bigness! Ha! once more
Hide love and me, my sweet confederate!

[Goes behind the bower.]
(Enter Costanza.)
Costanza.
Fit season for my visit. It was morn
When first I met him; every leaf and flower
Looked up and opened to increasing day;
Nature spread wide her arms, in liberal joy,
Yielding her flushing bosom to the sun.
Even as a tardy flower, my heart unclosed
To revel in his presence; even as
Rejoicing nature, my whole quickening frame
Glowed into new existence. While the sun
Plunges in haste behind yon western clouds,
To course dun night around his broad domain,
The leaves and flowers may weep themselves to rest;
Nature may cross her placid arms in sleep,
And dream of morn beneath the merry stars;
But, ah! to me there is no tearful rest,
No quiet sleep, no dream of happiness,
No star of comfort. In the middle heaven,
Yet veiled and ominous, burns my sun of love,
Never to set again.

Ju.
Hold your peace, winds!
Silence, ye fluttering leaves, that I may hear her!

[Aside.]
Cos.
Juranio—

Ju.
My name! [Aside.]


Cos.
Juranio,
'T is weak, 't is wicked, to maintain my grief
On thoughts of thee. For thought breeds love, and love
Redoubles grief, and grieving multiplies
Both thought and love, in an unending round.
O! had we met one little day before,
Ere fate could mock me with the double pain
Of what I am, of what I might have been!
I know thou lov'st me—

Ju.
(Advancing.)
Hadst thou been inspired,
Thy words could not be truer.

Cos.
Ha!—O, shame!
Juranio—Count Juranio!—

Ju.
Hear me, love!

Cos.
Begone, begone, sir!

Ju.
Hear me, dear Costanza!

[Kneels.]
Cos.
By what new license do you use that title?

Ju.
By the allowance of your lips.

(Pietro Rogo crosses the back of the scene, observing Costanza and Juranio, significantly.)
Cos.
How low,
How far beneath my honest scorn, you seem,
Poor Count Juranio! Will you not arise?—
The place is public. Or do you intend
To crown your treachery with my dishonor?

Ju.
A day of marvels! (Rises.)
But a minute since—
The words even now are echoing in my heart—
I heard you—if a man may credit sense—
I heard you, lady—

Cos.
Crop the guilty ears
That were abettors to their lord's disgrace!
Is it your custom, Count, to play the listener?
Our former meeting was in some such way
As this wherewith you honor me.

Ju.
Coquette!

Cos.
Signore!

Ju.
I heard enough to settle such a name
On all the seed of Eve.

Cos.
Redoubted cynic!
Where has your manhood fled, that you employ
Knowledge so basely found, so weakly used,
Upon a lady? What I may have said
In lavish fancy, granted truth compact,
Stands by the favor of your merit only:
After this paltry act—this poor attempt
To scare me to confession, by arraying
My private thoughts against my open words—
How rank you your own merit? Had you been
The generous man I one time held you for,
My thoughts had sunk, as rain-drops into sand,
To cool, but not to quicken. Leave me, sir!

Ju.
Costanza di Tiburzzi, ere I go,
Listen. I love you with a single heart.
I do confess much folly in the deeds
To which love drew me. Hidden by yon bower—
While peeping buds unfolded into flowers—
While infant leaves uncurled their tiny scrolls,
And, full-grown, basked them in the mellow sun—
While all creation was an active hymn
Of ceaseless labor to approving God—
I have stood idly, though the dear time sped,
Waiting to catch the faintest glimpse of you.
Then, happy with that treasure of my sense,
Have hied me home, to fill my waking thoughts
With growing fancies; or, through fleeting night,
Made my dreams golden with the memory
Of what had blessed my day. I cover nothing:
I have no skill nor wish to circumvent you.
You know the mystery of my presence here;
You know the secret of my love,—ah! yes,
You knew it ere I spoke it. You can lift,
By confirmation of your former words,
A sinking heart to rapture. Speak, O, speak!
My fate hangs on your mercy!

Cos.
Have you heard
No rumor of my marriage?

Ju.
Yes; a rumor,—
A baseless rumor.

Cos.
Ere another week,
That rumor and my fate will be but one.

Ju.
Is there no hope?

Cos.
I chose my portion, sir.
And must abide the issue.

Ju.
Dear Costanza,
Did you but know the energy, the power,
Which I might use to sway your destiny;
To foil a wretch—

Cos.
Hold! Do you counsel me
To scheme against my honor? Farewell, sir!
I know not by what weakness I have staid
To hear—Kind Heaven, some strength!

[Aside. Exit hastily.]
Ju.
Stay, lady, stay!—
What, shall I follow?—Gods! I'll drown this feeling!
Follow, forsooth, to glut her cruelty,
To make myself the plaything of a girl,—
I, Count Juranio, follow like a spaniel,
And on a cold scent too! Is this thing love?
I ween 't is more like hate—sound, manly hate.
Cold, cruel, heartless jilt! Yes, she was cold—
Cold, very cold. Love is not self-possessed.
But was she cruel? I cannot call her cruel.
I hope not heartless. Yet she loves me not.
Nay, she was very sparing of my feelings.
I broke upon her rudely—startled her;
At such a time too. Yet she loves me not.
Ah! yes; at such a time! while every word
Lightened the freight of her o'erburdened heart.
'T was rash in me—thoughtless: I should respect
Maiden reserve. She likes not sudden passion.
In faith, nor do I. Reason should confirm
Our hearts' emotions, ere we give them way.
Perhaps she loves me yet! I'll swear she does;
Or sovereign Love is but a gilded toy!

(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
Ho! there, Juranio!

Ju.
Signore Marsio—

Sal.
My name is Salvatore, please you.

Ju.
So!
But let him stand aside; I cannot answer
Where love may drive me.

Sal.
Can you answer me?
Deaf man!—Juranio! Are you dumb too? Here,
Let us talk with our fingers.

Ju.
Salvatore,
I've met her, spoken with her!

Sal.
So have I.

Ju.
What said she?

Sal.
Little. In my breathing-times,
She edged a word in.

Ju.
What had you to say?

Sal.
O! nothing plainly; I've not come to that.
But, here and there, I tumbled in a hint,
Like love astray, which she may ponder on.

Ju.
You love her?

Sal.
Ay, sir; she is not preserved;
I was not poaching; she is open game.

Ju.
How did she take it?

Sal.
Kindly, very kindly.

Ju.
Villain!—traitor! [Seizes him.]


Sal.
Lord love the man! Let go!
Is she the only she within the realm?
I have another she, to whom your she
Is only cousin.

Ju.
Miserable jester!

Sal.
No; I am serious. O, thou dear Filippia,
Couldst thou but hear this shabby creature sneer
At us, and at love's majesty! Base, vile,
Soulless Juranio!

Ju.
On this very spot,
Hidden behind yon bower, I heard her own
Such feelings for me—ah! such rapturous feelings
Of maiden innocence! My beggar heart
Was rich at once, as if the heavens rained love!

Sal.
Heard whom?

Ju.
Costanza—why, Costanza, surely

Sal.
I pray you do not gall me, kinsman, thus.
I am rashly jealous, deadly quarrelsome;
I'll fight you for a feather.

Ju.
While the words
Still tingled in my ears, upon this spot,
This very spot,—see where her little feet
Have nestled in the grass,—I heard her say
She could not love me, never would be mine,
And, worse than all, would marry Marsio!

Sal.
Worms gnaw the fellow! All Filippia said
Was “Marsio, and Marsio,” and “Cousin,
Poor, poor Costanza!” And now you begin!
Think you the heathen means to wed them both?
What is this Marsio?

Ju.
A wealthy merchant,
Or usurer, or some such sorry thing,
Picked by the Marquis for his daughter's bed:
A slow, sure matrimonial poison, used
To fatten purses,—death to flesh and blood.

Sal.
I understand. We must be rid of him.

Ju.
But how?

Sal.
Quite simply— [Musing.]


Ju.
How?

Sal.
Why break my thoughts?
I quarrelled, fought him, was just burying him,
By an unfailing plan; but you destroyed it.

(Enter Pulti, singing.)
Pulti.
The devil looked down,
With a curse and a frown,
And to the young witch he said,
'Ods blood! I 'd far rather
Quell hell in hot weather,
Than govern one headstrong maid!

Ju.
Whence comes that devilish song?

Sal.
From yonder knave.
Come hither, nightingale.

Pulti.
You called me, signore?

Sal.
Ay, warbler, unperch. What is the news in hell?

Pul.
The devil has a surfeit of light fools,
And sends for solid food; I'll pass you by.

Sal.
Now, by his tongue, the bird 's a woodpecker.

Pul.
And rapping on your poll.

Sal.
His tongue 's a foil:
He foins and parries like a mountebank.
Whom do you serve?

Pul.
Myself most faithfully,
To answer strictly; but I give, sometimes,
To answer more at large, slack services
To signore Marsio.

Sal.
That name again!
How many Marsios are there?

Pul.
One at present.
He gets to breeding shortly; there'll be more

Ju.
Are you purveying for a cudgelling?

Pul.
Heaven knows. What means the gentleman?

Sal.
Scarce nothing:
His thoughts are hardly fantasies just now.
How do you like your service?

Pul.
Why, so far
As one may thrive on musty wine, thin diet,
Most scanty wages—

Sal.
What a churlish wretch,
To treat so brave a fellow to such fare!

Pul.
Signore, you wrong him. I'm as well supplied
With work as bees are; I've more blows than Winter;
Oaths thick as stars; frowns bountiful as sunlight:
I am called up early, like an April violet;
Sent to bed tardily, like a waning moon;
I am railed and sneered at like Heaven's providence;
Outraged like modest nature—

Sal.
So! boy, so!
Is Marsio honest?

Pul.
Passably, so far;
But then, you know, the devil has a say,
Sooner or later, in the best of lives.

Sal.
Would you change masters?

Pul.
Ay, with Satan's dog.
But that is hopeless; wit 's uncurrent coin;
Men drop me sooner than they take me up.

Sal.
Serve me.

Pul.
I'm yours. Now, farewell, Marsio!
I'll leave my rags as keepsakes.

Sal.
Not so fast.
My service is peculiar; but its wages
Out-go your dreams. A fortnight I desire
You watch o'er Marsio, note his slightest act,
Become more zealous, more familiar with him;
Let naught escape you. When the time is fair,
You'll run to me, and make a full report.
I have suspicions of this Marsio's truth,
From certain hints a shrewd-brained lady dropped;
And should I catch him— (Aside.)
Can we not agree?

Pul.
How! I play spy!

Sal.
Are you a Christian man?

Pul.
Yes; of the latest make.

Sal.
Then hearken, man!
If Marsio 's honest, you can say no ill;
If he is false, 't is nothing but plain duty
To fright his brother sinners with his sins.
Make him hell's scare-crow; for example, brother,
Is your best governor of coward man.
There is a pithy sermon, preached for you,
Upon the mote and beam text. After this
Short fortnight's service, life is all your own.

Pul.
I'll do it. But forgive me, if I think
Your promise better than your argument.

Sal.
The knave is apt. [Aside.]


Ju.
Kinsman, 't is treacherous
To set a spy upon your enemy:
You lower to his level.

Sal.
Well, sir saint,
E'en leave the schemer to his wicked schemes.
Wash your hands, Pilate! I can bear the sin.
Remember—What 's your name?

Pul.
Pulti, good master.

Sal.
Remember, Pulti.

Pul.
Ay, sir; have no doubts.
This wretch, this crooked beast, this Marsio,
Must be—What, what? I 'm working in the dark.

Sal.
That saves the sin.

Pul.
(Sings.)

Sal.
That 's the tune, bird!
Time wears, Juranio.

Ju.
Why, let it wear!
Would you clog time? Put wings upon his feet:
Each passing day 's a drop of precious balm
To wounded hearts. Alas! what empty talk!
Time will but add another, deeper pain,
The curse of memory; a dreary waste
Of blasted life, stretching from now to death!

Sal.
You and your love make up the universe!

Ju.
Then leave me to my world. I would not talk;
I wish no comfort, no companionship,
No mocking hope, no fruitless sympathy.

Sal.
Ugh! what a wintry heart! I hope yet.—Come!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

The House of Marsio. Enter Marsio and Pietro Rogo.
Marsio.
You saw her, said you? Do you know Costanza?

Rogo.
Do I know you?

Mar.
I cannot credit it.

Rogo.
You would not credit it.

Mar.
Upon his knees?

Rogo.
As fine a looking fellow as you'll meet.
A Court-gallant, a man of her own tribe,
A new Adonis, who strings women's hearts
On mournful osiers, like an angler's fish.
Trust me, a dangerous youth, with broad, white brows,
That buzz with sonnets, and such lady-traps,
Like two great bee-hives. There I saw him down,
Down on his knees.—'T would pose you, Marsio,
To spring your chalky joints.

Mar.
Pshaw! Pietro,
Your trick is barefaced.

Rogo.
Trick, trick!—How? pray how?

Mar.
You 'd make me jealous.

Rogo.
By the blessed Virgin,
I swear I spoke the truth!

Mar.
If it be so,
I'll crush Tiburzzi, daughter, wife, and all,
Into the dust! Look you, friend Pietro,
I hold these beggars in my open hand.
Here, here—I have been provident for slips—
This little parchment covers all their worth
Down to a lira. Only let them blench,
And they shall pray for Purgatory. 'Sblood!
Trick me!—use me!—make me security
For a cracked daughter!

Rogo.
Who 's to blame but you?

Mar.
Enough of that. I'll watch her, Pietro—
Nay; are you serious?

Rogo.
On my soul, I am!

Mar.
I'll tax her with it. Will you not confront her?

Rogo.
That were base usage.

Mar.
Furies! what care I?
She 'd make a stale of me before we 're coupled!

Rogo.
Mend your own botching.

Mar.
Marry, that I will!
And yet I'll wed her, spite of her and you.

Rogo.
That frets me little.

Mar.
O! I know your drift!
You have bred a crooked notion in your brain,
That still keeps twisting. You would shape the end
Of the disastrous prophecy you made,
Merely to be called prophet. Look you, look you,
Martyrs are fashioned of such holy stuff!

Rogo.
Your rage defeats your judgment. I would guard,
Not govern you.

Mar.
Come, let us to the Park.
Perchance we'll meet these billing doves again:
And if we do, Tiburzzi's crazy house
Shall rattle in his ears as if doom's trump
Clamored against it! We will say no more.
I'll see her, Pietro.—A word ends all.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.

The Park of the Marquis. Enter Filippia and Salvatore.
Salvator.
By Cupid's beard, I love you hugely, lady!

Filippia.
By that same oath, I doubt it strangely, signore!

Sal.
Try me by all love's ordeals; if I fail
In any point of doctrine, faith, or duty,
Protest me arrant.

Fil.
Fairly challenged, sir.
I have a test.

Sal.
O! name it, name a thousand!

Fil.
You are acquainted with my cousin's fate,
With her betrothal to one Marsio?

Sal.
Gods! I know nothing else!

Fil.
Fie! restive lover!

Sal.
Between Juranio and you, my knowledge,
My precious knowledge—scraped by hard degrees—
Bids fair to be ingulfed in that one fact.

Fil.
Be patient. Would you win?

Sal.
On any terms.
I might stand Marsio's name some ten times more;
Costanza's some two-score.—But do be brief;
My reason totters when you mention them.

Fil.
We'll drop their titles. If you foil this marriage,
My hand is yours; ay, and the largest piece
Of a most grateful heart.

(Enter, behind, Marsio and Pietro Rogo, observing them.)
Sal.
But should I fail?

Fil.
Were mankind merged in one, and you that one,
I vow I would not—

Sal.
Hist! swear not; 't is wicked.
What if you broke your oath? 'T were perjury;
A deadly sin. I swear by saving rules,
That take the peril from a broken vow:
Let me do all the swearing.

Fil.
I am firm.
I err in asking this; but, having erred,
I'll have my wish to lull my conscience with.

Sal.
I merely sought to guard against mischance.
[Kneels.]
Here, on my knee, I swear—

(Marsio and Rogo advance.)
Marsio.
Hem!

Sal.
Zounds! who 's this?

[Starting up.]
Mar.
He is used to kneeling. This pair, Pietro,
And your old eyes, have cozened you.

Rogo.
No, no;
Yon doting couple, and the pair I saw,
Are no more like than geese and swans. This park
Must breed such creatures.

Fil.
Marsio himself!

Sal.
You fellow, there!—Sirrah!—you thieving clown,
I'll have you whipped for poaching!

Mar.
Sir!

Sal.
You trespass:
You are intruding upon private grounds.

Mar.
They should be private, if you often use them.

Sal.
How, dog?

Mar.
Sir!

Sal.
Quite at your command, sir.—Draw!
Here is a pretty piece of level sod;
This lady is my second; there stands yours.
Draw, draw! [Draws.]


Fil.
Do not forget yourself!

[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Not I.
This were a speedy way to settle all.
[Apart to Filippia.]
I wait you, sir. [To Marsio.]


Mar.
I do not wish to kill you.
Put up your sword. I would advise you, friend,
To find as safe a scabbard for your tongue.

Rogo.
'Sblood! do you bear that Court-fly's impudence?
Hark you, sir; signore Marsio is my friend,
My next of kin; might I supply his place?

[Draws.]
Sal.
Most charmingly. One of the family
Is something toward. [To Filippia.]


Fil.
Have you no respect,
No feeling for a woman?

Mar.
Shame upon you!
I'll cut the first man down who makes a pass.
Put up, good Pietro. This cause is mine:
He is no friend who takes it off my hands.
Make no excuse. [To Salvatore.]


Sal.
O! never fear for me.

Mar.
I pardon you, unasked. The gentleman
Has the infirmity of wrath. Alas!
Heaven made him so, for mortals to forgive.

Sal.
We'll settle, one day.

Fil.
Come, come, signore Firebrand;
I wish a valiant escort home.

Sal.
Dear lady,
Forgive my rudeness.

Fil.
No; I praise your zeal.
This bold beginning is a happy presage.

[Exit with Salvatore.]
Mar.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!—You would gull Marsio, ha?
[Laughing.]
Know you that man? 'T is signore Salvatore,
The foremost swordsman in all Italy.
Your life would last two passes, and no more,
Before his blade. When I crave suicide,
I'll take my quarrel up again. Go, Rogo.

Rogo.
'Sdeath! no: here I'll abide him.

Mar.
Mad as a March wind!
Is there no other way to tame wild bulls
Than butting at them with a pair of horns?
Meet him with his own weapons! Where 's revenge—
Where 's honor, satisfaction, and all that—
When you are wriggling half-way up a rapier,
Your heart pinned to your back? I have a way
To make his bilbo harmless as a rush;
I have an airy weapon that can stab,
Without a wound; yet make our satin signore
Grovel for life. I'm master of that blade,
And he is not: I'll use it, Pietro.

Rogo.
Keep to your own dark pathway, leave me mine—
Nay, sir; I will not go!

Mar.
Pish! headstrong man!
I am walking towards the Castle, I shall meet him,—
With the most lowly reverence of my cap,—
If you persist, I'll lead him round this place.
I say you shall not fight! 't would ruin me.
Now, dear friend Pietro.—

Rogo.
O! well, to please you.
The sun must rise to-morrow.

Mar.
Are you sure
These two were not the pair seen yester eve?

Rogo.
I swear it, by Saint Peter! She alone,
Lady Costanza—'sblood! I know her well—
Was the divinity; the worshipper
I never saw before. Within an hour
You shall know all about him.

Mar.
At my house
Meet me, anon. I'll bring her secret to you.
Lady Costanza has an open heart,
And I will tax it.

Rogo.
Do not trip yourself.
You have a dangerous ignorance of rank,
And the refinements of its ticklish honor.
I fear some blunder.

Mar.
'T is the quickest way;
I cannot sleep until the fact stand clear.
[Exit Rogo.]
As for our heady signore of the blade,
Let him look well to his economy;
To whom he credits, what he owes, what holds—
To what he eats, what drinks, what physic takes—
To how he sleeps, and how he goes abroad;
Let him beware dark nights, and crooked lanes—
Smooth billet-doux, and angry challenges;
For, by the wrath to come, a sudden death
Might lurk in any of them! Let him watch:
He opened credit with a punctual firm;
We must break quits ere long! Here lies my path.

[Exit.]

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Castle of the Marquis. Enter the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi.
Marchioness.
'T is the perversity of woman, sir,
A subtle fiend forever creeping in
Between a young maid and her interest.
Our girls are spoiled. The women of this age
Are infants from the crib down to the grave,—
Weak, mindless children, full of baby whims—
All smiles, all tears; but he is weather-wise
Who can predict their changing humors surely.
Ah! for the Roman matrons, the strong moulds
In whom the hero race was cast of yore!—
What, not bite at the Romans?—sad indeed!

[Aside.]
Marquis.
Our daughter's grief is deeper than a whim;
And now her gloom seems doubling. Oft of late
I have seen her slyly wiping tears away.
If I observe her—for I cannot help
The old love rising sometimes in my eyes—
At once she makes such frantic starts at mirth—
The dreary ghost of bygone merriment—
The dismal echo, when the sound has died—
The laughing lip, but not the laughing heart—
That I cannot but wonder at a state
So nigh to frenzy.

March.
She has lost your love.

Marq.
Can it be that? She shall have all my love;
Yes; I will double its best outward show.
I have been cruel. It may be that, indeed.—
But she has Marsio's love, for which she bartered,
Most wittingly, most calmly, my regard.
I can forgive her that, too. My old age
Is over-greedy, to presume her youth
Should cramp its action to my selfish bounds.
What arrogance! I had a father once,
And loved him dearly; but a little maid
Stole me and all my duty. Right, Costanza!—
She 's right, I say!

March.
I did not question it.

Marq.
I grant you, madam, natural love is pure,
Holy, and calm, and fixed unalterably;
Yet there is something in that other love,
With all its turbulence and fiery passion—
Its frenzies verging into bitterness—
Its sudden heats, and sudden shivering chills—
A mystery, and a far-fading feeling,
So wraps this fruitful union of two hearts,
That I can rather think its hidden start
To be from some great viewless source above,
Than from the many, obvious, natural springs
Which rise around us in our wonted paths.
What think you, wife?

March.
Sir, sir, I raise no question.
Two passions in yourself hold this debate.

Marq.
Two struggling passions cause Costanza's grief:
Her love for Marsio jars her love for me.

March.
You 're in a desperate way, sir, if you hope,
With the small pack of human faculties,
To hunt down girlish freaks.

Marq.
Freaks, madam, freaks!

March.
My plot works cross-grained. (Aside.)
Could you trust Costanza—
Ah! how he winces!— (Aside.)
You might condescend—
(Enter a Servant.)
Well?

Servant.
Signore Marsio.

[Exit.]
(Enter Marsio.)
Marq.
Fair day to you!

Marsio.
Thank you, my lord. Your daughter? where is she?

Marq.
Out in the Park.

Mar.
What business draws her there?

Marq.
Her love of nature.

Mar.
Nature!—Human nature?

Marq.
No; heaven's and earth's. Sunshine, and air, and flowers,
Have stronger charms, for the full pulse of youth,
Than the gray walls which chill age cowers in,
Through dread of sun-strokes, draughts, and sickening scents.

Mar.
Sunshine, and air, and flowers! Fine things, no doubt!
Is she oft out for sunshine, air, and flowers?

Marq.
Yes; every hour. I cannot keep her in.
She seems to draw some comfort from the breath
Of these bland May-days.

Mar.
The old man is frank.
[Aside.]
Have you much company?—I ask you this
Because I seek acquaintance with your friends.

Marq.
Friends! I have none.—How your thoughts skip about!—
Besides yourself, and my large family
Of well-known creditors, no one, save those
Whom it scarce shelters, comes beneath this roof.

Mar.
No one?

Marq.
No one.

Mar.
'T is sad.

Marq.
Custom has made
What troubled me at first, an easy loss.

Mar.
But, then, your Park has many charms,
Even for the dainty relish of your daughter,
And her fair cousin—I must not slip her:
But now I met her with a cavalier.

Marq.
How now! Filippia with a cavalier!
I am her guardian; but 't is news to me.—
Wife, wife, Filippia with a cavalier!

March.
Well, well, what harm? This is no nunnery:
She is full-aged. Her own sharp-cornered wit
Is her best guardian.

Marq.
I must look to this.

Mar.
'T is said—but with what truth I'll not avouch—
Your daughter has another cavalier.
These cousins hunt in couples.

Marq.
Fairly said!
You would excuse Filippia. Ha! ha! sir;
[Laughing.]
By the sly twinkle of your eye, I judge
You are the other cavalier.

Mar.
'Sdeath! no!
I have no taste for sunshine, air, and flowers;
'Ods blood! I hate them!

Marq.
You are strangely moved.

Mar.
Moved strangely, sir, by a most strange device.
'T were better, till I'm fairly bound, at least—
Until my honor cannot 'scape her pranks—
That she—Costanza, sir,—your daughter, sir,—
Showed more regard to common decency!

March.
What is all this?

Marq.
Our sweet son, Marsio,
Gives us an inkling of his filial love!

Mar.
Ne'er sneer at me, sir,—never sneer at me!

Marq.
I am talking to this lady.

March.
Pray be calm.
[Apart to Marsio.]
If signore Marsio has been well informed,
He has just cause to take offence.

Marq.
Gods! madam—

March.
Here comes Costanza: she can set us right.

Marq.
No; she can set you wrong,—can show how basely
You slander purity!

(Enter Costanza.)
March.
You have been walking?

Costanza.
Yes.—Good-day, signore Marsio!

March.
Alone?

Cos.
O, no! O, no! There was one little bird
Followed me strangely on, from tree to tree,
Measuring his lagging flight by my slow steps,
As if he sought to keep me company;
And when I paused a moment, he would hop,
In open view, upon the nearest spray,
And pour into my ears such moving notes—
So melancholy, yet so sweet withal—
That I scarce knew whether to stop and hear,
Or to pass on, and end his melody.

Mar.
Sunshine, and air, and flowers! and now a bird!—
Pish! do they take me for a fool? [Aside.]


March.
Costanza,
Had you no other company?

Cos.
None, mother.

Mar.
Bah! how she feathers us! I'll pluck your bird.
[Aside.]
Lady Costanza.

Cos.
Signore Marsio.

Mar.
I am a candid man—a little rough,
Perchance, sometimes, yet meaning honestly.
I never steal upon my enemy,
But march straight to him, pounding all my drums.

Marq.
Your enemy!

Cos.
Must I be rated one?

[Laughing.]
Mar.
I hope not, lady. But this busy world
Buzzed ugly sounds—unlike your pretty bird's—
Into my ears, as I walked hither.

Marq.
Well!
Would you out-stare each other?

Mar.
Bluntly, then:
'T is said—I hope without foundation, lady—
A bird is not the only company
Of your long walks and pauses in the Park.
One gossip winks, and swells his windy cheeks,
As I go by; then gluts his brother's ears
With a low, stealthy tale, told in fierce whispers,—
Of how you wander with a cavalier,
Pensive and silent, treading down the flowers,
That glitter so amid the dark-green grass,
As if you really cared not to blot out
God's handiwork. Another has a tale,
Fetched through a multitude of serving-men—
But all truth 's truth, he will go bail for that—
Of how this self-same cavalier was seen
Upon his knees to you—to you! At this
The whole fraternity smile forth a sigh,
And pity poor, dull Marsio. Lady mine,
I loathe man's pity! Is there aught in this?
Whom saw you yesterday?—the day before?
You do not answer.

Cos.
First, sir, by what right
Do you advance the question?

March.
Answer, child.
You are betrothed: he has a right from that.

Marq.
He has not, madam; nor will I permit
My daughter to be catechised.

Mar.
(Aside.)
Ho! ho!
I'll tame you shortly.

Cos.
Signore Marsio,
Do not misjudge me. Till my wedding-day,
My erring acts will fall on me alone.
When I do aught to peril my fair name—
Which, now, I hold you have no check upon—
I shall be first to show it, and absolve you
From all your obligations. Until then,
I am the proper guardian of my conduct.

Marq.
Well spoken, daughter!

March.
You maintain her folly.

Mar.
You'll not deny it?

March.
'T is but a word, love—
Nay, for your mother's sake.

Marq.
For my sake, peace!

Cos.
Neither will I deny it, nor affirm it.

Mar.
You dare not, dare not!

Cos.
Signore Marsio!—

Mar.
By heaven! I credit—

Cos.
Listen to me, sir.
Our marriage contract is not ratified;
Tear it, I beg you. I have no desire
To hold you to it, if you doubt my truth.

Marq.
Ay, ay! tear up the parchment.

Mar.
No, no, no!
What, would you bait me?—Look, Tiburzzi, look
The galled beast turn not on you! I have here—
No, no; I have at home, in safest hands—
That which shall beggar you. I hold your debts—
All that heaven left your miserable name—
Under my mercy! Yes, I bought them up
For half-price, sir—your credit has run low—
By the sweet saints, I'll use them!

March.
Patience, signore!

Mar.
I am all patience, when I am well used.

March.
You see our situation.

[Apart to the Marquis.]
Marq.
We are toiled,
Trammelled, betrayed, by this damned usurer!
The Duke shall hear me.

Mar.
Ah! the Duke, the Duke!
Above the Duke sits Justice, robed in law,
His mistress and the state's. Best pray to heaven:
They say its tardy mercy 's sure at last.

Marq.
Graceless blasphemer! Here to heaven I cry,—
The gray-haired father of this child, ensnared
By arts beneath the cunning of a thief,—
Against a heartless villain!

Cos.
O, be calm!
No harm shall touch you. Signore Marsio,
I will abide the contract.

Marq.
You shall not!
What, do you love him yet? You never did:
'T was feigned, to save me.

Cos.
As much as ever.

Marq.
My curses drag you down to his base level!—

Cos.
My father—O, my father! God forgive you;
You 've made my father mad! Come hither, sir.
Walk with me—help him, mother—with Costanza.
Nay, lean on me. Your little daughter, father,—
Only a child. Here is the same poor head
You used to bless so. I will tell you all:
I cannot here. That 's kind. Now come with me.
You should respect him, signore Marsio.
I hold you to the contract.

[Exit the Marquis, supported by Costanza and the Marchioness.]
Mar.
Well for you.—
The devil broil you all! O, yes, my lord,
Whisper your daughter, lower upon your wife;
I'll mate you yet, for all your starving pride;
Ay, and I'll find your lover, lady mine.
You have him, yes, you have him, to console
Your wretched wifehood. Should he see the day
Whereon I wed you—if he be not off,
Even at this moment, to the antipodes—
May I be wed and buried in one hour!
'Ods love! fool me—fool Marsio!—Ha! ha!

[Exit, laughing.]