University of Virginia Library

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.]