University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The House of Marsio. Marsio and Pietro Rogo
Marsio.
Juranio—Count Juranio—who is he?

Rogo.
The people's darling, the nobility's
Envy and general pattern, the good Duke's
Prime favorite and most familiar friend.
You will encounter no one, high or low,
Who speaks not well of him.

Mar.
Rich?

Rogo.
Marvellously;
He beggars you.

Mar.
Hum! Handsome?

Rogo.
Love-sick girls,
In dreams, bedeck the object of their thoughts
With no such beauty as our mere calm sense
Must render him perforce.

Mar.
Pietro Rogo,
I am not handsome.

Rogo.
Ho! ho!—Why no, no!
[Laughing.]
Neither outside nor in.

Mar.
I do not see
The justice of it, Pietro. Why chance
Crowds this man's clay into Apollo's mould,
Yet scrapes the fair, plump flesh from my lank fingers,
From my gaunt, bony arms, from my crook'd legs—
Scoops out my narrow chest—from every part,
Where usage orders, steals my buxom matter,
To pile it in one lump upon my back;
Making me hideous with the very stuff
She uses to create a paragon.
Why this should be, I say, amazes me,
And gravels reason. Well, to kick at fate
Is but a laming trick. My reptile form,
At least, contains the reptile's cunning. Now,
There is some justice there. Perhaps your Count,
For all his beauty, lacks the use of it.
Has this fair shape a mind?

Rogo.
We'll see anon.
The people give him out as full perfection.
What said your lady-love?

Mar.
Ah! there 's the doubt;
I cannot fathom her.

Rogo.
Nor ever will.
When you believe you touch the lowest depths
Of women's hearts, there 's something still beneath,
You wot not of.

Mar.
Tush! Pietro: I tell you
I hold my friend Tiburzzi in a leash,
To come and go as I may whistle him.

Rogo.
How bears he that?

Mar.
He struggled for a while;
But when I hinted what a time they pass
Who tug their lives out at a galley's oar,
Neither for gain nor pleasure; how to row
Even a shallop, without any aim,
Would be a sad thing; and described a hulk
As something bulkier than Costanza's shoe;
When, to all this, I hinted doubtful fears
Of his dear daughter's fate, if he were gone,
He grew a rival for the meekest dove.

Rogo.
You are a villain, Marsio.

Mar.
I know it:
I'm what is called a villain by a world
That sees its huge face in my little glass.
'T is false! I am no villain. I am one
Who must achieve what my heart prompts me to,
Or be no more forever. I'm as well
As any man who works his purposes,
Despite his fears.

Rogo.
For all your interview,
You still are doubtful. Why not give her up?
I would far rather wed a Magdalen
Than a suspected woman. Doubts and fears
Make up full half the substance of our ills.

Mar.
I'll solve my doubts before the wedding day.
If she prove true, I gain a trusty wife;
If she do not—why, even as I said,
Tiburzzi rows a galley. I will have
My wife or my revenge. Gods! Pietro,
The girl looks chaste.

Rogo.
Looks chaste!—O, save us!—looks!
Yet that might cozen one. I often gaze
Upon a piece of ruined womanhood
With strange, blind feelings—a blank wonderment
That one so fair, so chaste, to outward show,
Must by the cautious intellect be held
As mere corruption. There 's a fearful jar
Betwixt the heart and brain upon this theme.

Mar.
I have an ordeal for her. It may be
That Count Juranio knelt and prayed to her,
As sinners do to the shut ear of heaven,
With bootless zeal.

Rogo.
Yes; even that might be.

Mar.
You are lenient to-day.

Rogo.
Low-spirited,
Dyspeptic.

Mar.
Ah! Here is my little plan.
Tiburzzi dare refuse me nothing: I
Will bring together the enamored Count
And his fair idol;—yea, I will cast in
His friend, fierce signore Salvatore. Thus
His Countship shall have scope, unbounded room;
Tempted by love on one side, on the other
Urged up by valor. I will throw Costanza
And the sweet Count, ablaze 'twixt love and wrath,
Into incessant contact, while I watch
The play my puppets make.—Ha, Pietro?

Rogo.
Blast your dark plots! But reason splits on you;
You'll have your way.

Mar.
That will I. Come with me.
I'll take you to Tiburzzi's house. Perchance
He'll hold me better for my company.—
Ha, Pietro?

Rogo.
Ha, Marsio! Sneer, sneer!
I will not go.

Mar.
You fear Tiburzzi?

Rogo.
No!
Curse your Tiburzzi! Would you take me there,
As a set off to your own awkwardness?

Mar.
Ho! ho! well thought!

[Laughing.]
Rogo.
I'll meet you in the Park.
Let me have notice when this pretty plot,
Against your own repose, is toward.

Mar.
Yes.

Rogo.
You'll rue your plotting. Crime has its degrees;
Wade in its shallows, and you drown at last.

Mar.
Lord, Pietro! what a good man you are!

[Laughing.]
Rogo.
I'll have the laugh upon you shortly, sir,
If I know aught of woman.

Mar.
That would be
A bitter laugh for old Tiburzzi. No;
It must end well. Costanza will prove true;
My test will school her virtue, not destroy it;
And Count Juranio—

Rogo.
Well, well, what of him?
I partly love the boy, men speak so fairly.

Mar.
Why, so do I. But he must feel his trespass;
Know what it is to woo a man's betrothed.
That were a moral lesson, fitly taught
For his soul's health. But lightly, Pietro—
I will but check him with a father's hand—
Quite lightly, Pietro. Ha, ha! poor boy,
[Laughing.]
He will not need correction more than once.
Come, come, to business! Love has played wild tricks
With my neglected balances, of late.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

The House of Juranio. Enter Juranio and Salvatore.
Salvatore.
Cheer up, Juranio! Do not hug your grief;
All that is lovable in you is wasting
Before its sickly drought. Remember, man,
You are supported by a deity.
The blind brat, Love, despite his want of eyes,
Will find you out a way to win at last.
Trust your own idol. Shame upon despair!

Juranio.
You talk, to cheer me, with a cheerless heart;
Between your words, your face is sad as mine.
Salves for a mortal wound, drugs for the dead,
Hopes for the hopeless!

Sal.
Every thought 's astray.
Why, all things are merely as we behold them,
Taking such qualities as we bestow.
One only looks at the bright side of things;
And he 's your gull, the prey of all mankind.
Another gloats upon the darker side,
Pleasing himself with self-inflicted pain;
And he 's your misanthrope. Another scans
Both bright and dark, with a calm, equal eye;
Lo! your philosopher. But then—now mark—
Comes up the happy soul who looks at nothing,
Yet turns whatever is to present pleasure;
Tastes Fiascone in thin Pavian wine;
Wallows in down upon a bed of straw;
Smells roses in a swine-yard; hears sweet tones
From the harsh, grating rasps of puffing smiths;
Beholds the sunshine glorify the flower,
And change all nature to one merry hue,
Beneath the duskest sky of bare December.
Here 's your true liver, kinsman mine! A man
Who neither fools, nor frowns, nor calculates,
But dreams away this aching thing called life:
Make him your model. If your lady frown,
Why, look up one who smiles.

Ju.
Dear Salvatore,
'T is but a vain attempt to reason down
Our smallest feeling. The mind's snow may lie
A dreary winter on the torpid heart,
Yet never kill it. Slack the rigor once,
And, like a violet that leans its cheek
In mockery against some melting drift,
Up springs the heart, more fruitful for its rest.

(Enter Pulti, singing.)
Pulti.
So the devil was wroth
At the gentlemen both,
Though no one could fathom his matters;
And he dashed around hell,
Like a dog tailed with bell,
And tore all his dwelling to tatters!

Sal.
Well, Pulti, well?

Pul.
Signore, it is not well.
I am beaten to a cripple; I must leave;
I cannot stand your service longer.

Sal.
Why?

Pul.
Marsio is mad. Would you could see him now!
He foams and rages round his frighted house
Like a bear newly caged. He 's full of curses,
Full of dire threats against some hapless foes;
And every time he passes me—O Lord!—
My humble manner seems to prick him so—
He takes compassion on his enemies,
And deals me half their vengeance. See me, sir!
I am basted like a piece of English beef:
I had just strength to crawl here, and no more.

Sal.
Who has enraged him?

Pul.
That I cannot tell.
Two gentlemen, I judge, by what I hear:
By what I feel, I judge these gentlemen
Must bear a striking likeness to myself.

Sal.
Can he suspect?

Ju.
What is there to suspect?
The length that I can enter in his thoughts
Would be a comfort to him. As for you,
Doubtless he has forgotten you ere met:
These merchants have no care for points of honor.

Sal.
But—

(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
Signore Marsio.

Sal.
What, what?

Pul.
The devil!
O, could I clamber to the frozen moon,
And cut away my ladder!

Ju.
How is this?

Sal.
What said you, sirrah?

Serv.
Signore Marsio waits.

Ju.
Admit him.

[Exit Servant.]
Pul.
O, I beg you, sir—

Sal.
Here, Pulti,
Into this room.

Pul.
Avaunt! A priest, a priest!

[Exit.]
Sal.
What can this mean?

Ju.
Marsio will tell us that.

(Enter Marsio.)
Marsio.
Am I intrusive?

Ju.
O no; welcome, sir!

Mar.
A good-day to you, signore Salvatore!
We have met once before.

Sal.
Good-day to you!
He claims acquaintance on strange introductions.

[Aside.]
Mar.
You wonder at my coming, gentlemen.
I am but agent for my lord, the Marquis.
He honors my betrothal to his daughter
With a small feast to-night. We want but guests.
Knowing a sadly-broken intercourse
Had once existed 'twixt your name and his,
I volunteered to bear my lord's respects
And humble wishes to you. May we hope?

Sal.
Why, signore—

Ju.
We will come.

Sal.
How, Count?

Ju.
We'll come.
I rage with thirst; the sweet I cannot taste,
I'll drain the bitter to the very lees,
And she shall see it!

[Aside.]
Mar.
Further, gentlemen—
Though I am trenching on fair courtesy—
Could you not pass the day—'t is early yet—
With the good Marquis? So preparing you,
By slow degrees of interchanged regard,
For more familiar greetings at the feast.
I push your kindness; but my lord's content,
And a desire for your unfrozen ease,
Is my sole object.

Ju.
Yes! by all the gods!

Mar.
Ha! why this energy? (Aside.)
You shame my thanks
By more than noble courtesy. Farewell!
Within an hour my horses will be round.

Ju.
Expect to meet us.

Mar.
Lo! the trap is set.
Look how you tread, my courtly innocents,
Or Herod's bloody day shall come again!

[Aside. Exit.]
Sal.
A strange request: I think him honest, though.

Ju.
I care not what he be.

Sal.
The saints protect us!
You 're roaring drunk with love and jealousy,
Blind and incapable.

Ju.
I'd reach the worst.
To be forever baited by my passions
Is more than I can bear. My hopes and fears
Tear me to pieces. I am man enough
To toss despair into the grave of love;
But these sweet tortures of insidious hope
Oppose no front to arméd fortitude.

Sal.
Now you talk sanely. When you come to blows—
To strangling passion, burying despair,
And setting up a commonwealth of reason—
My heart fights with you. You shall have your way.
Ho! for Tiburzzi!

(Reënter Pulti.)
Pulti.
Signore Salvatore,
[Sings.]
O! pray what said the devil,
With his cloven tongue of evil,
As he drew his hoof under his gown?
Why, to them he said sweetly,
Sweet gentlemen, I greet ye!
But he wished they might hang, starve, and drown.

Sal.
Whate'er he wished, he spoke us fairly, Pulti.

Pul.
I heard it all. Beware of Marsio!
You know him not, as I do. I suspect
You are the gentlemen who woke his wrath.

Ju.
Pish! how?

Pul.
Do we not often fall to hating
For the same cause we mostly fall to loving—
Simply, for none at all? Perhaps your cloak
Is of a hateful dye in Marsio's eyes;
You grow moustaches, but he loathes a beard;
Your dress is much too dandified; your hat
Worn too much on one side; your cheeks
Hint of the roses, and he scorns a rose;
Your hair is raven black,—“Out upon black!”
Says Marsio; “black hairs thatch empty heads.”
Here is enough to raise a riot, sirs,
And overturn a state. Why will you go?
I am sure he means you ill.

Sal.
Why think you so?

Pul.
I cannot tell; I have no reason for it;
My mind jumped to that end.

Ju.
We waste time, kinsman.

Pul.
O! do not, do not go!

Ju.
Peace, sirrah, peace!

Pul.
I have more interest in you, gentlemen,
Than your best gold can buy. You are the first,
For many a weary day, who've made me feel
The simple worth and dignity of man.
I've hidden my heart under outrageous mirth—
O, heaven! how sad it beat there!—till my jests
Became a natural language. I have lived
To sneer, and to be beaten; all content
If my poor wit were sharper than the blows.
I love you for your kindness.—Hear me, sirs—
I'd rather see this fair world torn to shreds,
Than harm befall you.

Ju.
I respect your grief;
And were my life not centred in this thing,
Your single wish should sway me. Salvatore—
What, you hold off!

Sal.
You know for whom I do it.

Pul.
If Marsio escape my eyes to-day,
May I want eyes to see him on the morrow!

[Aside.]
Ju.
I'll go alone. You cannot balk me thus.
Were Marsio the devil Pulti sings,
I would confront him. Ere the night set in,
I shall be free; or—Down, ye maddening hopes!
O! were your whispers certain prophecy!

[Exeunt]

SCENE III.

A Room in the Castle of the Marquis. Enter Costanza and Filippia.
Filippia.
After this treatment of your father, too?

Costanza.
Yes, yes. Each act which sinks him in my mind,
Binds me more closely to him. I but think
Of my poor father, feeble, heart-sick, dying,
With nothing but the mercy of this man
Between him and the galleys. Gracious heaven!
Marsio dared threaten him with even that,
While all the glory of the setting sun
Looked on him through the windows! Do men think
That this vast theatre of their wickedness—
With its brave lights of sun, and moon, and stars—
Its shifting scenes, from Spring around to Winter—
Its moving canopies of cloudy blue—
Is crowded with a spiritual audience,
Keeping mute watch upon our lightest acts?

Fil.
Ah me! I know not. Musing minds, like yours,
Ask questions without answers. Save my eyes!
Are these things phantoms?

(Enter Marsio, Juranio, and Salvatore.)
Marsio.
Good-day, ladies!—How!
Are we infringing on your privacy?
Pray, what disturbs you? Nay, we will withdraw.

Cos.
Stay, signore: you mistake us.

Mar.
By your leave,
I bring two friends of mine, or rather guests—
Guests for the present, friends henceforth I hope—
To share our feast to-night. Receive them kindly;
For they deserve no less. Let me present,
Lady Costanza, Count Juranio.

Cos.
Sir, we have met before.—

Mar.
Ah! so indeed?
A chance acquaintance, doubtless. As my friend,
He asks a double share of your regard.
Mistress Filippia, signore Salvatore:
I pray you know him.

Fil.
Do not jeer at me!
You know we 've met before. I will not stand
To be a butt for your dull, headless jokes!

Mar.
Gently, my little lady, gently now!
Do I o'erstrain good breeding? Have you had
A formal introduction to my friend?

Salvatore.
'Sblood, signore Marsio—

Mar.
Banish all restraint.
Swear if you list, dear Salvatore, swear!
The ladies will forgive you, for my sake.
Hang on no ceremonious usages.
I beg you'll know each other. Laugh, dance, sing;
Open all avenues to fellowship;
For, by my hopes of wedded bliss, old Time
Shall make oblation of this day, at least,
To rouse the gods of genial jollity!
Where hide the old folk? Let us seek them.—What,
You laggards!—Forward, to the stretching Park!
Stone walls cramp action. Lead my lady forth,
Good Count Juranio. Why, you stand amazed;
Dismal as death! Cannot a man be gay,
Without your wonder? Count, conduct your charge
I give you a safe escort, lady mine.
Now, Salvatore, buckle sweet Filippia
Under your strong right-arm. I'll follow you,
With nothing but my mirth for company.

Sal.
Can Marsio be mad?

[Apart to Filippia.]
Fil.
Heaven only knows!
My heart is fluttering at a fearful rate.

[Apart to Salvatore.]
[Exeunt Costanza and Juranio, Filippia and Salvatore.]
Mar.
So, well done, now! Lord! how they fall to talking!
My presence must have been a chill upon them.
Bless us! Filippia's all alive with speech;
Arms and hands going—how she brings them down!—
Clinching some sentence, through and through, with truth.
And now she darts her head and curving neck,
Like an affronted swan. Ha! quiet yet,
Costanza, pensive still! And your fine Count
Striding as at a funeral! Why is this?
Where 's your love-rhetoric? Heaven speed ye all!
The twigs you tread are limed. Join wits with me!
Who is the fooler now? who are the fooled?

[Exit.]

SCENE IV.

The Park. Enter Costanza and Juranio.
Costanza.
Where are our friends?

Juranio.
They have deserted us.

Cos.
Let us return to them.—Why came you here?

Ju.
To be a guest at your betrothal-feast.

Cos.
But was that kindly done?

Ju.
I cannot say:
One, more or less, can make small difference.

Cos.
Sir, you dissemble with me.

Ju.
Do I, lady?
Who taught the lesson?

Cos.
Is it manly in you
To seek so poor a victory over me?
Perchance, you thought to see my features pale,
My eyes swim blindly, and my limbs give way,
When you approached me first.—You did not, sir!
Perchance you think when, at the festival,
They toast my union with Marsio,
To see me falter, nay, to faint outright—
A crowning triumph for your vanity.—
You shall not, sir! O! Count Juranio,
This is unworthy a less man than you!

Ju.
As you behold it; but you wrong me much.
Why have you ever held me in contempt?
Why have you sought the motives of my acts
Among the lowest heaven allows the base?
Why have you turned my honest love aside
With irony? I never wronged you, lady,—
No, by my soul, neither in word nor thought!
I never wished to tempt you into ill,
With the bare modest offering of my love.
Why do you fly a gentleman's regard,
And fix you on this loveless Marsio?

Cos.
These are strange questions, Count Juranio.
After to-day, our paths lie far apart;
Pledge me your honor ne'er to see me more,
And I will answer.—Nay; my fate is fixed.

Ju.
You will not understand me: your ill thoughts
Stretch to futurity, and hint at things
Beyond my heart's conception. I would rather,
Far rather, know your holy chastity
Were pining in a dungeon—dying—dead—
Than clasp your blighted beauty in my arms,
With Helen's charms joined to it!

Cos.
Gentle sir,
You misconceive me. I would spare the pangs,
The fearful struggles, which our love—

Ju.
“Our love!”

Cos.
Ay, ay! I love you, love you, love you!
I tell it to you with a breaking heart:
I must speak once, though ruin follow it.
A little while, and this still agony
Shall vanish from existence; yes, the sod
Will rest as quietly above my grave
As o'er a yearling infant's.

Ju.
Happiness!
Costanza, dearest,—turn not from me now:
I am all yours. O! I have loved you long:
I'll spend my life in telling you how much.
Do not allow cold fancies to tread down
These buds of joyous promise. There is naught
Between us and the fulness of our hopes,
Save feeble Marsio.

Cos.
A giant!

Ju.
No;
A very pigmy. Dearest, do not shun me.

Cos.
I pray you, Count, remove your hands from me—
My father's life hangs on my constancy—
Away, sir, I am sacred!

Ju.
Spurned again!
Do you act thus to torture me? O! answer!
Is cruelty your practice, grief your sport?
You walk in mystery; every deed is blank
And purposeless to me.

Cos.
Forbear, forbear!
You should not taunt me thus. My destiny
Tramples on love, and overrules my life.
O! tempt me not!

Ju.
Explain, explain yourself.
I would not think unworthily of you.

Cos.
You know my father's poverty—

Ju.
Yes, yes;
And to enrich him—for his sake alone—
Am I not right?—you marry Marsio.

Cos.
Quite right. But my betrothal was performed
Ere—ere—

Ju.
You loved me. But what hinders now?

Cos.
My father's debts were large, strewn here and there,
The wide accumulation of old dues
Gathered for ages round our sinking house.
Marsio knew this, and bought the scattered claims
For a bare trifle; though the full amount
Would beggar a state's revenue to pay.
He held these debts—alas! that I can say it
Of one to whom I must be linked for life!—
Above my father's helpless head, and swore
Either to wed me, or to send my father—
Think of it, signore, an infirm old man,
Full of ancestral pride and gentle thoughts—
Yes, to send him—chained, coupled, mixed with thieves—
Even to the galleys!

Ju.
The outrageous wretch!
I'll bury him in gold!

Cos.
Too late, too late!
Though you held all the Indies in your fee.
Upon the threat—from which no prayers could move him—
I promised Marsio, most solemnly,
To keep my marriage-plight.

Ju.
Alas! I mourn
More for your fate than for the loss of you.
(Enter, behind, Marsio and Pietro Rogo, observing them.)
Is there no way? Yes, yes; the Duke—

Cos.
The Duke!
The holy Pope, himself, is naught to me
Before my promise.

Ju.
Lady, do but think
Of the long life of weary misery
That lies before you.

Cos.
I have thought of that.
Will you attend the feast now?

Ju.
I am bound,
Almost by oath, to Marsio.

Cos.
Indeed!—

Ju.
After the feast—O heaven! have mercy on me!
I cannot, cannot yield you. Chance, nay, heaven
Has thrown me in your way to succor you.
I slighted women till the day we met:
Each feeling which love's prodigals spread out,
In lavish wastefulness, upon your sex,
I have stored up to tender you alone.
Shall all be lost? Ah! lady—

[Kneels.]
Cos.
Count, be strong!
Life 's but an atom of eternity.

Ju.
But love makes life immortal.

Cos.
'T is in vain;
You must not strive to weaken my resolve.
Farewell!

Ju.
So be it, then. (Rising.)
Yet, ere you go,
Leave some remembrance—ay, that golden cross
Is a fit emblem of my martyred love.

Cos.
No, no; forget me. It were weakness, sir,
To pamper memory with a toy like this.
Yet when a thought of me will come to you,
Judge me not harshly—as of one who died,
Rich in rare gifts, bequeathing you no part—
But as a poor, poor friend, who, dying, left
All she possessed, her blessing.—May God bless you!

[Exit.]
Ju.
O! fate! what I have lost!

Rogo.
How think you now?

Marsio.
That Count Juranio is my best of friends.
He proved my wife the soul of constancy.
I'll love him from this day. Why, Pietro,
I do not see you laughing at me—ha!

Rogo.
Be quiet, man; my laugh may come at last.
Juranio will make a famous friend,
After your marriage. Just the youth, I think,
To show your lady to a masquerade—
To hand her shawl—to read her fiery poems—
To dance with her—and do all other things
Which you are slow at.—Ha! friend Marsio?

Mar.
Poor fellow! Pietro, I almost fear
The hapless youth will pine himself to death
Ere I am married—though I'll stir for him—
I fear so, Pietro. Why, look you now,
He has a dying face; so strangely pale!
Doubtless, there is some fatal sickness nigh,
Which this sad interview has hastened on.
Poor, crest-fallen lover! Let us speak to him.
[They advance.]
Ho! Count Juranio! What, you are alone!
Where has the lady gone I charged you with?
O! faithless guardian! On my honor, Count,
I'll never trust her to your care again.—
Would you, friend Pietro?

Ju.
She just departed.
Some duty called her to the castle.

Mar.
Ah!
Some duty past persuasion; or no doubt—
So high I value sweet Costanza's charms—
You 'd have detained her.—Ha! Count? Now, a youth,
Of your fair person, should have ample power
To hold a restive maiden.

Rogo.
How he rubs him!

[Aside.]
Ju.
I did not urge her stay.

Mar.
Indeed! Well, well,
You lack my feelings;—but I cannot hope
That all the world will look through lovers' eyes.
Here 's signore Salvatore, and alone!
Fair maids are in discredit. Save you, sir!

(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
A moment with my kinsman.

Mar.
Ask a thousand.

[Juranio and Salvatore talk apart.]
Rogo.
The devil take me, if you have a heart!
I would not worry these poor boys so much,
To sway the dukedom.

Mar.
Yes, I have a heart—
A heart which these poor boys would trample on,
Did I not wear a head to second it.
Even now they scheme to compass me.
See, the plot opens.

Sal.
Signore Marsio,
You are a merchant, traffic is your trade,
You look on all things under heaven as worth
Just so much money.—

Mar.
Mark you, Pietro,
Here 's the ideal merchant. Well said, signore;
A golden measure is a certain thing
To gauge the world with.

Sal.
Hold you anything
You have not measured with this golden rule?
Have you aught priceless?

Mar.
Nothing—let me think.
No; there is naught I know of.

Sal.
Frankly, then;
What is Costanza's value?

Mar.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
You are the maddest dog in Christendom!
Perchance, you are serious? Signore, if you are?—

Rogo.
Zounds! Marsio, you are a mean, tame fool,
To brook this insolence!

[Apart to Marsio.]
Mar.
Bear with me, friend.

[Apart to Rogo.]
Sal.
My words were plain enough.

Mar.
Well—let me see—
I should receive—I put her low to you—
At least ten million ducats. I will give
A warranty for kindness, soundness, age;—
She has no tricks,—you may put trust in her.
Is this fair dealing, Pietro?

Rogo.
Pshaw! pshaw!

Sal.
You jest with me.

Mar.
Faith, I am serious.
Ten million are a serious thing. I wish
To fit some argosies. Ten million ducats!
Within a year I 'd nearly double them.
I want ten million.

Ju.
Take them, in heaven's name!
I still shall have my little villa left
Among the vineyards.

Mar.
But I want that villa.
Can you not throw it in?

Ju.
Most gladly, signore,
Yet be your debtor. I have arms to work.

Mar.
Now, should I wish a limb or so?—

Sal.
Take mine;
Leave my trunk bare. One limb of mine is worth
All yonder puny fellow's.

Mar.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
Could you unbowel earth of all its gold—
Cover the globe with vineyards, and sow villas
Thicker than sands upon the roaring beach,
Amid the vine-sticks—were mankind unlimbed,
The whole race at my mercy—these would make
No atom of the sum I hold her at!
'Sblood! will you flout me?

Sal.
Well, well, I have lost.

Mar.
Ay, lost—How lost?

Sal.
Forgive the liberty.
I made a sportive wager with the Count,
That I could purchase anything you owned:
He named your lady.—As I live, Juranio,
You scarcely used me fairly.

Mar.
Ah! a jest.

Sal.
A jest that lifts a trader's character
Above my former thinking.

Mar.
Pietro,
If I should put this jesting home again,
They could not murmur?

Rogo.
No, forsooth.

Sal.
No, no;
'T is give and take.

Mar.
Why, signore Salvatore,
I half believed you meant it. Well done, faith!
How did you keep your countenance? 'T was rare!
Costanza must know this. So, merry men,
On, to the castle! Count Juranio,
You played well too. You must feel lively, Count,
With such a flood of spirits.

Sal.
Curse the brute!
He cuts Juranio with a two-edged sword.

[Aside.]
Mar.
Now forward, sirs! We must break even yet.
I'll plan some joke; but, when 't is working hard,
You must not flinch, if it be something rude.
Forward, mad boys! We are all jesters now:
For want of bells, we'll shake our empty heads!

[Exeunt, on one side, Marsio, Juranio, and Salvatore; on the other, Pietro Rogo.]