 | Plays and Poems |  |
2. VOL. II.
THE BETROTHAL: A PLAY
- Marquis di Tiburzzi, A decayed nobleman.
- Count Juranio, A wealthy nobleman.
- Salvatore, His kinsman.
- Marsio, A wealthy merchant.
- Pietro Rogo, His friend.
- Pulti, Servant to Marsio.
- Costanza, Daughter to the Marquis.
- Filippia, Her cousin.
- Marchioness di Tiburzzi, Mother to Costanza.
- A Priest, a Notary, Guests, Servants, &c.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
An Apartment in the Marquis di Tiburzzi's Castle. Enter the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi.Marquis.
Why urge forever Marsio's rich estate?
Wealth is not sovereign. Should his money sprout,
And yield a thousand-fold, it could not change
Its master's nature. In the glare of gold
Unnumbered blemishes oft come to light,
That had been better hidden in beggar's rags.
Marchioness.
What faults has he?
Marq.
It matters not.
March.
Why not?
Marq.
If I dislike the man, the end is gained
Without a summing of antipathies.
March.
But should Costanza love him?
Marq.
Bless me, madam!
Am I an oracle? Your questions reach
Beyond my thinking.
March.
Stranger things have been.
The maids of Greece, for all their dainty tastes,
Gambolled with Satyrs. Men can never know
2
Some love the outer, some the inner man,
And some the garniture which fortune gives;
Some love to rule, others to be enslaved;
Some love for pity, some affect the bold;
Some on entreaty, others from sheer spite
And sturdy opposition, will consume
With three-fold fire. This slender bodkin's point
Is ample basis for a woman's love.
Marq.
Not for Costanza's. Do not wrong our daughter
With empty fables, nor impute to her
The melting weakness of all womankind.
If she should love—Poh! poh! I squander breath;
The thought is monstrous.
March.
Pray, what see you, sir,
In signore Marsio—think him what you may—
To banish him beyond the pale of love?
He is not handsome! Well, and what of that?
These girls have apes for playthings. Cannot talk?
She'll slit his tongue, and busy her for hours
With her new human magpie. Here 's a husband
To banish Maltese cats and singing-birds!
What if she love?
Marq.
Her love would sanctify
More vice than Marsio's little soul can hold.—
But this is idle.
March.
Now, what do you mean?
First, Marsio's blemishes; next, your dislikes;
Then, Marsio's vices, and his little soul!
Why do you hate him?
Marq.
Hate is not the word:
3
First, his mean birth.—
March.
Ho! pause we at his birth.
Did his low birth beget his character?
I hold you, sir, he is so nobly minded
That he will pick an empress for his dam,
If you give choice.
Marq.
Like still engenders like:
'T is nature's law. The rugged mountain horse
Breeds not the silk-skinned barb; the shaggy cur
Litters no fine-limbed greyhounds. It may take
Whole ages of ancestral blood, to crown
A long-drawn race with one true gentleman.
Think you his peddling stock can shape a mate
For her whose fathers, at great Cæsar's voice,
Out-flew the conquering eagles?
March.
There it is!
Cæsar and all his legions! We have stood
A hungry siege from him for many a day.
Would he had strangled at his birth,
With all his captains!
Marq.
Why this argument?
I have heard ten thousand, in my time, yet never
Knew one wry notion straightened by them all.
What would you?
March.
Why not ask me that before
The matter smothered in the argument?
Marq.
Speak; I attend you.
March.
Should Costanza's eyes
Have found some merit, unobserved by you,
In signore Marsio—should it so have wrought
Upon her woman's fancy as to gain,
4
Would you oppose her choice?
Marq.
Oppose her choice
Why, you amaze me. Have you seen good grounds
For such a question?
March.
I have seen enough.
I have observed kind looks from Marsio's eyes
By echoing blushes answered from her cheeks;
I have—Lord, Lord! what have I not observed?—
Sufficient to have bred a plague of love,
If love were catching.
Marq.
This is very strange.
March.
No; 't is as old as Adam. Maids will love,
And fathers will not see it. From these signs,
Knowing our daughter's happiness might hang
Upon your voice, I would forestall her grief,
By timely checks, ere love has grown a habit;
Or, should you wish, confirm her doubting heart
By your full sanction.
Marq.
Wonderful indeed!
She fancy Marsio! Had I been asked,
I'd said she shunned him.
March.
No unusual trick
Of love-sick girls.—But here Costanza comes.
Leave her to me—nay; if you question her,
You'll scorch her words in blushes.
Marq.
As you will.
You are wrong, believe me. She has ever borne
So plain a heart to me, so dutiful,
So zealous to fulfil my wish as never
To question of its justice—yet such acts
Performing not with the cold hand of duty,
5
That I shall feel some twinge of jealousy,
If she has ousted me from my fair seat,
Henceforth a stranger's, without common notice.
Question, but do not vex her. I would rather
Your keen suspicion had o'ershot its mark,
Than that my daughter should have wasted love
Upon this—this—
March.
Noble, thrice noble man;
Half deified by her subliming love!
Marq.
I have no heart for jesting.
[Exit.]
March.
Nor for acting:
Your feeble nature shifts the deed on me.
(Enter Costanza.)
Costanza.
Where went my father?
March.
To concoct some scheme
About a penny-worth of musty bread.
It takes more work, to live this starving way,
Than would be used in earning us a fortune.
But we are noble, very noble, daughter;
We have some centuries of rich, proud blood,
On which we live, and therefore need not labor.
We feed, like fleshy men, upon our fat,—
Self-eating cannibals.
Cos.
Fasting has its mirth,
Feasting its sorrow.
March.
Ay, ay; much the mirth
We see the death's head grinning.
Cos.
True, my mother;
Death has a whisper in the maddest mirth
Of us poor mortals.
March.
You are gloomy, child.
Cos.
No more than usual. 'T is a gloomy thing
6
Bowed with a load of vulgar, petty cares—
Too mean to tax the housewife of a hind—
That nip and pinch him into actual life,
Giving his aching mind no dreaming pause
'Twixt day and day.
March.
Of all disgusting things
Commend me to our old, familiar friend,
Proud poverty.
Cos.
Would I could lighten it!
March.
And so you can.
Cos.
I! how?
March.
I trow, my daughter,
You'll be no victim, no burnt-offering,
No chattel, traded for your father's peace:
No; let us starve, drown, hang—why, what care you?
You have a heart, forsooth, a virgin heart,
Not to be hung on matrimonial shambles!
In faith, you are right.
Cos.
What is your purpose, mother?
March.
There 's signore Marsio; do you fancy him?
Cos.
I never weighed my feelings for him.
March.
No?
But he loves you.
Cos.
For that I owe him thanks.
March.
Now—do you mark me?—should you marry him,
We are rich at once.
Cos.
That never crossed my mind.
March.
It has ours.
Cos.
“Ours”?
7
Your father's and my own.
Cos.
My father spoke of this?
March.
Just ere he left.
Cos.
Does he desire me to wed Marsio?
March.
You know your father far too well for that.
He would not have you wed for his sake only;
Would not persuade you, press you, and so forth.
With such spasmodic eagerness, with such
A trembling lip, and clutching of the hands,
He says these things, that I, who know his ways,
With half a thought can fathom his desire.
Cos.
Which is?—
March.
That we should want no longer.
Cos.
How!
Wed Marsio?
March.
Not unless with your consent.
Well, would you try it? Tell your father, then,
You love rich Marsio, whose countless wealth
Can bribe his sorrow, ease his shaking mind,
And make his days lapse calmly to their end—
Marsio, whose golden finger puts to flight
Duns, bailiffs, tradesmen, all the brood of want,
And makes a jest of every former grief
To talk of in foul weather. Nay, my child;
Breathe not a word of this: say simply thus—
I love good Marsio; I would be his wife.
You'll see the issue.
Cos.
Signore Marsio stands
Far better with my father than I thought.
Doubtless there is some good in Marsio—
In Marsio—in Marsio—
March.
Well, well!
Why do you dwell upon his name?
8
There seems
A strangeness in it, I ne'er marked before.
March.
You will attempt this little loving ruse?
Cos.
Mother, I dare not tamper with the love
My father bears me.
March.
Poh! 't is but a trial.
You need not marry Marsio, for all.
Cos.
This I will say: if to my father's mind
Marsio appear a proper husband for me,
And signore Marsio should incline to me,
I will accept him.
March.
Bravely spoken, child!
I know you do this for your father's sake;
And 't is a beautiful, most saint-like act,
On which the angels smile. May Heaven reward you!
Then, in Italy, marrying is one thing,
Loving is another.
Cos.
What did you say?
March.
You will find out ere long. But, hark, Costanza;
If you are resolute, let every action,
Which falls beneath your father's eyes, appear
Full of kind thoughts for signore Marsio.
Cos.
I feel but kindly towards him. O, my mother,
If he, or any man—a clown—a fool—
More hideous than the nightmare, crueller than
The ragged tooth of famine—
March.
Tut, tut! daughter,
Marsio is none of these.
Cos.
I hope not, madam.
Doubtless, I'll learn to love him very soon.
It seems to me, duty would tutor love,
9
Marsio must know the terms.
March.
What need of that?
When did love ever chaffer about terms?
I'll tell him, if 't will ease you.
Cos.
Let us go.
My father's word must sanction this high treason
Against the sweet dominion of god Love.—
You see I am merry, mother; am I not?
March.
Yes; very merry.
Cos.
As we go along,
Give me a catalogue of all our ills.
Tell o'er my father's sufferings; then rehearse
The royal qualities of Marsio's gold.
How do you think my father's face would look
With one bright smile upon it? Do you know,
'T is a long, dreary age since I beheld
What you might call a smile upon his face?
I need to hear these things. Think you this marriage
Would be no sin against my better nature?
March.
Heaven counsels filial love.
Cos.
Yes; you shall feast,
And wear gay clothes, and build our shattered house,
And brush the cobwebs from our ancestry,—
That seem to suffer like decay with us,—
And there shall be no name in Italy
Prouder than the Tiburzzi! Did you think,
When you first saw me lying in my cradle,
An impotent, cross bantling, that one day
Your poor Costanza could do all these things?
10
Woe is me!
Tears are close neighbors to such mirth as mine.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II
Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter Marsio.Marsio.
If I know money—Heaven knows I should—
They must come to it. Needy, needy, say you?
I have known the needy murder for a ducat:
Lo! here are millions; and but for a name.
A very ancient, very noble name,
I grant; but somewhat damaged in the keeping.—
Easily patched, however, easily patched with gold.
Join Marsio's riches to Tiburzzi's name,
And who can stand against them? But the name,
Ungilt and naked, is an empty noise,
Which Marsio's gold—Marsio's hard, solid gold—
As well can purchase in the daily market
Where parents vend their marriageable wares.
Why should I doubt? There 's nothing like a heart
To chaffer for. I never bought a heart.
Men say I want one. Ha, ha! how they lie!
[Laughing.]
'T is a great rock on which all commerce wrecks.
There is no rival, no keen moneyed man,
To weigh his scrapings 'gainst my topmost bid;
So says the Marchioness—O, pardon me—
Our mother, I should say; though ne'ertheless
A marchioness for all that, Costanza dear.—
11
Besides a hundred other sweet, pet names,
To come up on occasion. Ha! our mother!
And all one splendor with a blaze of smiles!
(Enter the Marchioness.)
I guess your meaning
Marchioness.
Hist! the Marquis comes.
Show no surprise; one doubt may mar the whole.
Hear, ere you speak.
Mar.
I am all ears, no tongue.
(Enter the Marquis.)
Marquis.
Welcome, friend Marsio!
Mar.
“Friend Marsio!”
Well spoken, friend Tiburzzi! (Aside.)
Gracious sir,
Your proud addition to my humble name—
March.
Stoop not too low, or you may never rise.
[Apart to Marsio.]
Mar.
—My deeds shall ratify.
March.
Turned just in time.
[Aside.]
Marq.
Frankness is best—
Mar.
The coin of honesty!
March.
For Heaven's sake, peace! Art talking for a wager?
[Apart to Marsio.]
Marq.
Signore, it seems my daughter and yourself,
Unknown to me—and therein much I blame you—
Have leagued your hearts—
Mar.
What! she—
March.
O, silence, silence!
[Apart to Marsio.]
12
You would excuse her, signore, with such reasons
As, to the partial wits of lovers, seem
Both law and right; on me they fall full coldly.
That love, which breeds such ecstasy in you,
To me is breach of trust. But let that pass.
Mar.
Against your word—
Marq.
Do not deceive yourself;
Hearts will make way against ten thousand words.
Mar.
Are you so wilful? Forward, then.
[Aside.]
March.
You see,
My lord but seeks our daughter's happiness.
Marq.
Yes; take her, sir. No foolish whim of mine
Shall stand 'twixt heart and heart.
Mar.
“'Twixt heart and heart!”
What does he mean? Well, I will swallow all.
[Aside.]
Your frank approval stifles my poor thanks.
Let me repay your frankness with its equal.
No man, who is your friend, has wanted eyes
To see how, day by day, that ancient wealth,
Which once so proudly propped your mighty name,
Has slipped beneath the thing it should support;
Till all the glories of this noble house
Seem tottering down to ruin and oblivion.—
Nay, do not chafe; I cannot choose but know it.
Marq.
“Know it, know it!” the very beggars know it,
And, with unbegging laughter, pass me by!
My name 's the jest of all this mocking land.—
The blind, dumb, deaf, conceive it! Idiots, jays,
Parrots, have wit to say, “Poor, poor Tiburzzi!”
13
I would not ape them.
Marq.
O, 't is nothing new:
Heaven makes us feel our chastenings commonly.
Of all realities, the reallest thing—
Of all heart-sickening, spirit-killing things—
That can unnerve, unsex, and bring to naught
The proudest purposes of stubborn strength,
Making brawn Hercules a whining baby—
The very top and crown is poverty!
It feeds on hope, it glories in despair,
It saps the brave foundations of the will,
It turns our simple faith to blasphemy,
It gnaws its way into the very spirit,
And with a weary siege starves out the soul,
Sending to judgment that bright denizen
So changed in hue, so fallen from its estate,
That Heaven, in the poor, warped, and shivering thing,
Can scarcely recognize its handiwork!
Mar.
My purse shall aid you. Use it, without stint,
In common with me.
Marq.
Pshaw! I need it not.
I and my wants have grown such intimates
That 't would seem strange to part us. Prisoned men
Have wept at parting from their old, dull cells:
So custom, I doubt not, may reconcile
A father to an unconfiding child.
I can take naught of him.
[Aside. Walks apart.]
March.
Urge him no more:
His mind is troubled with an idle fancy
About Costanza's want of trust in him.
14
But he will change, next moon.
[Apart to Marsio.]
Marq.
Pray treat her well,
Pray treat her well, good signore Marsio:
One sin makes not a sinner. She is worth it;—
Yes, yes, although she 'd not confide in me.
But then, you know, we fathers have no vows
Like you hot lovers; have no skill, to show
The depths and heights of customary feeling,
With high-spiced words. Love grows a gray-beard in us,
And lacks the prattle of the wingéd boy.
Pray treat her well.
Mar.
I'll have no other care.
A precious store ne'er wants a zealous ward.
Marq.
Let not that promise rust.
March.
Our daughter waits
Signore, go on before. What, what, so tardy!
Does your love use a herald?
Mar.
By your leave, then.
[Exit.]
March.
Stands it not as I said?
Marq.
Is she my daughter?
March.
If she is mine.
Marq.
That strain I cannot doubt:
There the blood cries.
March.
If it amuses you,
Pray rail away. There 's many an out-door saint
Blows off his wolfish humors at his wife,
And paces forth a lamb.
Marq.
Love Marsio?—No!
What, sell herself?—pah! pah! Come, let us in.
This shivering on the brink is worse than drowning.
15
The galling process of the action stops,
And I may rub my fretted hands at ease.
I'll not be tortured.—Marry, marry shall they;
And sooner than they think! Still waiting, madam?
Heavens! what a new Tiburzzi fortune sends!
[Exeunt]
SCENE III.
Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
Would I wed Marsio? Would I wed the—
Costanza.
There!
Your common phrases have sufficient strength,
Without appealing to another world.
Fil.
Would I wed Marsio? (Laughing.)
Why, 't is something new
To hear you jesting, cousin! Would I wed
A man who ever thrusts his money forth
As his best quality?—a man who feels
No inward stir of man's nobility,
But, like the poor ass with his golden freight,
Is worth just what he carries? Then he has
A wicked, subtle, and consuming devil,
Pent in the corners of his red-rimmed eyes,
That 's always dodging, like a serpent's tongue,
Angry but fearful.
Cos.
What a character!
Fil.
'T is Marsio to an eye-lash.
16
Your wild tongue
Ever outruns your stricter meaning, cousin.
I shall wed Marsio.
Fil.
What a woful sigh!
That is the tone Gonsalvo gave me, when,
Tearing his tattered ruff—worn for the nonce—
He cried, “I shall drink poison!” But he did not.
Cos.
But I will.
Fil.
Drink poison?
Cos.
No; wed Marsio.
Fil.
The poison in another shape.
Cos.
Fie! fie!
Are quibbling jests the best advice you give?
Fil.
'T was jest chase jest. You are not serious?
Cos.
Indeed I am.
Fil.
Then here 's a weeping matter.
Cos.
Marsio has made an offer for my hand,
Which I intend accepting.
Fil.
O, you shall not,
You shall not, by my faith!
Cos.
By mine I shall.
Fil.
I hate him, hate him!
Cos.
I 'm not jealous of you.
Fil.
Who 's jesting, now?
Cos.
You 've taught me your own tongue.
Fil.
I see through this. You marry that base wretch—
That sallow, spider-legged, bow-shouldered wretch—
That man of money—that great human purse—
That—that—
Cos.
Hie forward, forward, cousin dear!
I would not have you keep such humors to yourself;
They might breed inward danger.
17
Out upon you!
Your father's wants have driven you to this end.
You should not dare—I say, you should not dare,
If famine wrestled with us throat to throat—
Offer the holiest portion of your nature
To this gold calf. 'T will have a grievous answer,
One day, Costanza; for 't is mortal sin
To strike at the dim instincts of the heart.
Why are you weeping? Cousin, dear Costanza,
The sun shines upon nothing that I love
As I love you. That 's generous; smile again.—
But, lo! the gentle lover! lo! sweet Marsio!
Dragging his fingers o'er the entrance wall
Like a belated school-boy!
Cos.
Cousin, cousin!
Fil.
He sees you—blushes! Ay: by my faith, blushes,
Through all his leathern skin, from ear to chin!
Come, that is cheering! Marsio can blush.
Cos.
Do leave, Filippia.
Fil.
I! I dare not leave.
Look to your trade, Costanza. Push him sharply.
He'll get the better of you. I'll be witness;
And if he slip one tittle, we will close
Upon him roundly. Tell him hearts are dear
This season; the supply of maiden hearts
Has dwindled down; he may have widows' cheaper;
Old maidens' for the asking. Money 's plenty,
And begs for usury. Nay, mark these things;
He'll trick you else. We must protect our interest.
Cos.
Have done! have done!
(Enter Marsio.)
Good welcome, sir!
18
I thank you.
A fair day, lady!
Fil.
Dare the knave say that,
With such a falling-weather face? Perhaps,
Some day, he'll find I 'm not invisible,—
The ill-bred cur! [Aside.]
Mar.
May we converse alone?
Fil.
Better and better! He has seen my ears;
I'll show my tongue, next.
[Aside. Seats herself apart.]
Cos.
Signore Marsio—
Mar.
Yes, lady, yes.—I have a mortal dread
Of girls and babies. [Aside.]
Cos.
You would speak with me?
Mar.
Ay; if I could. [Aside.]
Has not your mother—Pshaw!
I came to lay my fortune at your feet;
And I will hold it doubled fifty times,
If you bestow one smile upon the act.
Fil.
Prolific smile! [Aside.]
Cos.
Sir, if my simple smile—
Fil.
Or my compounded laughter, shout on shout.
[Aside.]
Cos.
This is deceit. [Aside.]
Mar.
O, horror, what a strait!
Never a word! Her silence will upset me.
Would she might fall to cursing!
[Aside.]
Fil.
Conny, dear,
A million, Conny; 't is well worth a million.
Mar.
What means yon lady?
Fil.
You shall see, anon.
[Aside.]
Cos.
'T would pose my cousin, signore Marsio,
To show a meaning in one half she says.
Mar.
Your servant, lady.
[Bowing.]
19
Of the latest date.
[Curtseying.]
Mar.
Here 's my excuse.
[Pointing to Costanza.]
Fil.
A fair excuse, indeed:
I know no fairer, sir.
Mar.
I said not so:
You might teach schoolmen, if you knew yourself.
Fil.
Well done! We get on bravely.
[Aside.]
Mar.
Gentle lady,
Our business waits.
[To Costanza.]
Fil.
There the mart speaks again.
[Aside.]
Cos.
Has not my mother told you of the terms.
On which I listen to your suit?
Mar.
She has—
O, golden chance! here comes the Marchioness!
I'd have gone mad, ere long.
[Aside.]
(Enter the Marquis and Marchioness.)
Marquis.
Daughter, Costanza,
Do you love signore Marsio?
Cos.
I hope
To love him better, sir.
Marchioness.
Well said, well said!
Love 's but a baby, Hymen is a boy;
He grows apace in wedlock.—Well said, daughter!
This coyness is the privilege of maids:
Do not compel her to a public blush.
[Apart to the Marquis, who walks up the stage, gloomily.]
Cos.
How sad my father seems!
March.
'T is very natural;
He parts from you; but it is like the parting
Of a young twig, that, when it sunders, adds
A vigorous life to the old parent tree.
Think of that, daughter.
20
But the twig will wither.—
So be it, though, if it revive the tree.
Marq.
You would wed signore Marsio?
Cos.
I will wed,
With your approval, signore Marsio.
Mar.
It irks me much that you must bare your heart;—
Both irks and pleases.
March.
Are these questions decent?
[Apart to the Marquis.]
Fil.
She changes words, and never answers straight.
She 's mad for misery. There 's something wrong.
If I but dared—I will— (Aside.)
My lord, my lord—
Marq.
She has declared it. Take her, signore, take her!
And may she never want the duteous love
A wife should show a husband! May she lean,
In an unbroken confidence, upon
The upright manhood she has found in you;
And may you never know what bitterness
Burns in the silent chambers of a heart
That loves, yet cannot trust! God bless you, child!—
Yea, give your husband all you held from me!
[Aside.]
21
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Park of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Enter Juranio and Salvatore.Juranio.
Whose grounds are these?
Salvatore.
The Marquis di Tiburzzi's—
A sorry sequel to an ancient stock,
Whose wide dominion once outstretched our sight.
Alas! for him, poor man, malicious fortune
Threw all the choicest of her random smiles
Upon the wrong end of his famous race,
And now mocks him with what his fathers were.
Ju.
A pretty place! Some heritage of beauty
Yet harbors here. Mark how the clustered blossoms
Star the dark back-ground of yon shady wood.
Sal.
O! yes; but mark how jealous avarice
Has shorn the chiefest saplings to the root.
Ju.
Yet spared us every flower. Praise be to Heaven!
Their beauty is not marketable. See,
A living bower, a bower of growing vines,
All carpeted with last year's fallen leaves!
Sal.
A thrifty thought! The very dead are used.
That hint was stolen from Egypt, where they burn
Their spicy ancestors. 'T were a proud thing,
To sit down at a fire of Ptolemies,
With Cleopatra for a back-log.
Ju.
Ugh!
22
With your great sprawling jokes. The hand of taste,
Making best use of few materials,
Is here.
Sal.
The hand of woman.
Ju.
Worse and worse!
I'll fly you, shortly.
Sal.
'T would confess your devil,
To fly at holy names. Why do you shun
These dainty blossoms of humanity
With such stern care?—So ho! run, run for life!
There go two maids—two full-blown, dangerous maids—
Hide you, sir modesty!
Ju.
You know them maids?
Sal.
I take them so on credit.
Ju.
Save you, save you!
Good lady-broker, you will one day fail
From such long credits.
Sal.
See, they make this way.
Here comes the goddess of your living bower.
Ju.
Which one?
Sal.
The shorter.
Ju.
No; the taller one.
Sal.
How know you that?
Ju.
I trace her little fingers
In the soft curvings of each vine.
Sal.
Ho! ho!
(Laughing.)
Ju.
I'll bet my Arab—saddle, spurs, and all—
Against your empty laugh, those cunning girls
Are plotting to ensnare some luckless man:
I see such malice in your small one's eyes.
Sal.
Done!
23
Done!—Come hide.
Sal.
A mere excuse for running,
You arrant fly-frock!
Ju.
Here, behind the bower.
[They secrete themselves.]
(Enter Costanza and Filippia.)
Costanza.
Press me no more; my motives are my own.
You grant me judgment?
Filippia.
More than you grant me.
You have some cloudy fancy in your brain,
That needs but airing,—some weak, flimsy notion,
That common reason would dry up at once.
Cos.
You rate me poorly, cousin.
Fil.
There again!
You would be off. Stick to the text, Costanza.
Do you love Marsio?
Cos.
Would I wed him else?
Fil.
You dare not answer strictly.
Cos.
Why then ask?
Fil.
I know you do not. 'T is not in your nature
To fall so meanly. O! be warned in time.
The twin-born heart to whom you owe allegiance,
To whom, perforce, you must surrender love,
Will track you out at last. How fearful, then,
To perish piecemeal with a smothered passion,
Or—I will not repeat it: 't was a story
Old at the flood.
Cos.
Here I dare answer strictly.
If you will not allow me Marsio,
At least, I love no other.
Fil.
But you will—
24
Fall in a frenzy of outrageous love
With some stern, mulish creature, like yourself,
Who swears he'll wed the blackest blackamoor,
And will—that will he!—though the heavens should fall!
Tell me, Costanza,—tell me, darling cousin,—
What are your motives in this strange affair?
Cos.
Then will you cease your torments?
Fil.
Ay; and vow
To keep good counsel.
Cos.
Nor by word or deed
Again oppose my purpose?
Fil.
Yes, to that;
But 't is a bitter contract.
Cos.
Let us walk:
The story is a long one.
[They walk up the stage.]
Ju.
Salvatore,
This eavesdropping is scarcely honorable.
Sal.
What a fine moral sense! Just as you lose
The last faint whisper of their pretty talk,
Up starts indignant honor.
Ju.
Ah! her voice
Held honor spell-bound. Did you mark, with me,
How the low music trickled from her lips?
All heaven was listening to her, why not we?
Sal.
Which one set heaven agog?
Ju.
The taller one.
Sal.
The small one spoke the more.
Ju.
More, but less valued.
The other's phrases served to bind together,
As baser metal solders sovereign gold,
The broken links of her harmonious thoughts.
25
Zounds! are you mad?
Ju.
I know not what I am:
I am something I was not an hour ago.
Sal.
Unhappy idiot!
Ju.
See, see, she walks!
Sal.
A wonderful exploit!
Ju.
I must address her.
Sal.
Fellow, there are two. To my unbiassed eyes,
The smaller is the fairer. Let us leave,
As partial penance for our vulgar fault.
Will you not come?
Ju.
No; I must speak to her.
Sal.
That were ill-bred.
Ju.
I'll frame new codes of manners.
Fair lady, by your leave—
[Advancing to Costanza.]
Sal.
Nay, be not startled.
'T is but a simple kinsman of my own,
A poor brain-darkened lunatic; but harmless,
Quite harmless to a lady. Pray you know him;
The Count Juranio—once a wiser man.
[Juranio bows.]
Ju.
And here his cousin, signore Salvatore,
[Salvatore bows.]
A world-wide jester, a professed buffoon;
The globe 's his bauble, all mankind his mark;
Each word of his a jest, or meant for such.
A cunning ferret after doubtful phrases,
A subtle reasoner upon groundless proofs,
A deep inquirer into shallowness,
A dangerous friend, a harmless enemy;
His own best jest, oftener laughed at than with.
26
And you are safe.
Fil.
Two weighty characters!
Cos.
What mean you, gentlemen?—You should be such
By dress, if not by manners.
Ju.
We—I—I—
What would we, Salvatore?
Sal.
We would know
The way to town.
Fil.
Why, all the steeples stare
Above yon hill.
Sal.
Ah! yes.—True—true, indeed—
I see—What would we, Count Juranio?
There is an awful mystery here, which I
Would fain explain, if we might meet again.
[Apart to Filippia.]
Fil.
A mystery! How, meet me? I cannot tell
But I may often ramble hereabout.
[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Our ways are doubtful: odder things have been
Than two chance meetings.
[Apart to Filippia.]
Ju.
Has my tongue strayed off?
[Aside.]
Lady, from that small spring, the human heart,
Arise a thousand swelling impulses,
Each one a mystery to the sober brain:
'T were vain to ask why we do thus and thus,
Why crush that good intent, and rear this wrong,
While the poor reason, that would fain inquire,
Is impotent to rule. 'T was such an impulse
Drove me to what I did; which, being done,
27
Your gentlest censure.
Cos.
Sir, a fault confessed
Pardons itself one half. I will not grudge
A full forgiveness, if you ask it of me.
Ju.
I do, most humbly. It is not my wont
To sue for breach of manners.
Sal.
That I swear!
He was the flower of distant etiquette
To all things feminine.
Cos.
Nor are my manners
Of the sour, formal cast that freezes back
The generous feelings of o'erflowing nature,
And bars the way between our hearts and lips;
Nor—nor—Indeed I know not what I say—
I talk at random. Pray you, leave me, sir:
You trifle with me.
Ju.
Lady, are you just?
Cos.
O, heaven! I am not; neither to myself,
Nor those who own my duty. Say no more;
But leave me, leave me!
Ju.
I obey; how sadly!
May we not meet once more?
Cos.
No; never, never!
[Exit with Filippia.]
Sal.
Gods! we are all mad together!
Ju.
“Never, never!”
Sal.
You lost your Arab.
Ju.
Did I?—“Never, never!”
Sal.
Ay; but you did.
Ju.
'T is granted.—“Never, never!”
[Exit. Salvatore following him amazedly.]
28
SCENE II.
The House of Marsio. Enter Marsio.Marsio.
Where I had purposed to court, beg, and bribe—
To out-scheme Machiavelli, and so tug
Against the disadvantages of birth and rank,
That, by sheer strength and resolute force of will,
I hoped to barely conquer—they at once
Thrust the fair prize in my astonished arms,
Blow all my crafty net-works to the wind,
And half undo me with sheer wonderment.
They say she loves me.—Hum! I'll think of that:
It looks suspicious.—Nonsense, Marsio!
Hold up thy head! Did they not, upon 'Change,
Marvel at thy advancement? Ah! did not
That sneering beggar, Volio, who can boast
Some half-score drops of gentle blood—
Who never condescended—bless his stars!—
To speak with thee;—did not that ragged wretch—
Ha! ha! I watched him from behind a pillar,
Close, very close, as 't was rehearsed to him—
Did not even he turn blue with choking envy?
Swore 't was a lying scandal; but no less
Bowed his majestic forehead to his belt
When next we met? Lord bless us! and he spoke,
So sweetly spoke, in such a winning whisper,
Of the “dear Marquis,” of the “dear Marchioness;
Hoped the fair lady of my heart was well;
When would my marriage be?” And then he took
29
The devil claw him!
(Enter Pietro Rogo.)
How now, Master Rogo?
Rogo.
So! How now, Master Marsio? Men have said
Your grand betrothal has upset your brains:—
By heaven! I think so. “Master Rogo,” sooth!
Why, yesterday 't was “Good friend Pietro;”
And “Kinsman Pietro;” and “Pietro,
I have a secret for you!” Out upon you!
I thought to hear some folly, but your style
Out-fools conceit!
Mar.
I prithee be not rude;
Nor so presume on former fellowship—
Rogo.
Where are your wits?
Mar.
Cease your blunt manner, sir!
Rogo.
What?
Mar.
Cease, I say!
Rogo.
The world is full of marvels;
I myself can dream some stretch of wonder,
And they say poets, and such-like madmen, can,
By some shrewd knack, make that appear as truth
Which really is not; but roll all the poets,
All my wild dreams, all the earth's prodigies,
In one huge mass, and Marsio makes them tame.
Mar.
Good Master Rogo—
Rogo.
Pietro is my name.
No man shall master me.
Mar.
Pietro, then;
Since yesterday, as you observe, a change
Has come across me. Yesterday we met
30
To-day I represent the last great branch
Of the Tiburzzi; and as such expect
That due observance of my rank and person
Which it is but my duty to demand,
And is as much your duty to bestow.
Rogo.
You thrice-dyed fool! With the Tiburzzi's daughter,
Did you receive the blood of all the race?
Their gentle culture, their refined politeness,
Which wins, but never asks, a man's respect?
I tell you, Marsio, you have climbed a tower,
To make your shameless folly further seen.
Come, come, be ruled.
Mar.
Begone, sir! Leave my house!
I wear a sword.
Rogo.
A lucky thought, my lord,—
My bold Tiburzzi! By the devil's beard,
I'll try your lordship's hand at noble arts!
When we get through with this, we'll run a tilt.
Draw!
Mar.
Will you leave me?
Rogo.
Draw, my noble sir,
Or I will thresh your noble lordship's shins
With a good Milan blade. The devil take me,
If I endure your airs! I'll make a hole
To let discretion in you. Draw, you oaf!
[They fight. Rogo drives Marsio round the stage.]
Your lordship gives, gives to this vulgar man?—
That 's charitable!
[Marsio is disarmed.]
Now, sir, were it not
For the huge sin of surfeiting the devil,
With such a lump of folly, I would let
31
Nay, you 're not off yet. Promise me to be
My old, dear friend, Marsio of yesterday,
Or I will send that semblance of my friend,
Into whose body you have falsely crept,
To sup black Pluto!—Swear! or, on my life,
Your shrift is short!
Mar.
Come, come, friend Pietro.
Rogo.
You are improving. Swear it!
Mar.
Well, I swear.
Rogo.
Never to be a lord to me?
Mar.
No, never.
Rogo.
Ever to listen to my wholesome counsel,
Though it be rugged as the road to heaven;
And to receive it, if your candid judgment
Can bring no cause against it?
Mar.
Yes, and yes.
Take your cursed rapier from my throat!
Rogo.
'T was blessed
To your salvation, most ungrateful man.
Go up, old Milan: when you are sunned again,
May you be umpire in as good a cause!
Now of this marriage; is the rumor true?
Mar.
Ay; have you aught to say?
Rogo.
Against the fact,
Nothing.—Though, in this easy-jogging land,
Marriage seems quite superfluous to me:—
And the same cause which makes a single state
Endurable, should scare us from a wedding.
Well, let that go. You are a wealthy man,
And must have lineal heirs—either your own,
Or seeming so—undoubtedly, your wife's—
To squander your slow millions in a day.
32
Are the sour sneers of an old sapless miser
What you call counsel?
Rogo.
Patience, patience, friend.
Who is the maid?
Mar.
Had my heart rhetoric,
'T would answer in fit phrases.
Rogo.
Bless my soul!
He 's metamorphosed to a first-class lover!
You have a tongue, perchance?
Mar.
The fair Costanza—
Costanza di Tiburzzi is the name—
Rogo.
They doused her with at baptism. Fair, you say?
Mar.
Fair as—as—
Rogo.
What?
Mar.
As any thing you choose.
Her charms outsoar my fancy; fly your own:
Come, Pietro.
Rogo.
Ecstatic driveller! Fair?
I like not fair. The ugly ones are best:
They bear the patent of their chastity
In their brown skins, in their green, filmy eyes,
Their clawish hands, their broad, earth-flattening feet,
Their crooked ankles and their camel backs.
Without temptation, there can be no sin;
But where the fruit is jolly, and hangs out
As a ripe challenge to all passers by,
Heaven only knows who tastes, who handles it,
And who goes harmless past!
Mar.
Pietro Rogo,
Is there one subject under the mad moon
Too weak to found an argument upon?
33
Against all comers, that incontinence
Is but a wide benevolence; that murder—
Under the million given circumstances
With which your nimble wit shall hedge it in—
Is a humane achievement; theft, an instinct;
Cheating, a thrifty thoughtfulness of self;
And so forth, on through all the deadly sins.
Poh! poh! what stuff you talk!
Rogo.
Back to our subject.
Costanza di Tiburzzi should be daughter
To an old dwindled noble of that name:
Is it not so?
Mar.
It is.
Rogo.
They want your wealth.
Mar.
And they shall have it! Our long-shadowed name
Shall blaze, with a new light, through Italy.
Rogo.
O, ho! “our name!” My sword crawls in its scabbard.
Friend, you have not one generous aim in this;
Your own huge pride awakes this forward zeal:
But you'll learn wisdom through humility.
Mar.
How, raven, how?
Rogo.
A hundred little things
Shall make you gnaw your fingers to the quick.
You'll haply blunder at the first grand feast:
At which Lord So-and-so will titter, titter;
And Lady Somebody will simper, simper;
And sly Count Nobody, a noted wit,
Will wink and wink; while some bluff honest duke
Howls out his laughter. Then our father wriggles,
And stares straight through a six-foot granite wall;
34
About the price of spaniels to her neighbors;
Our bride hangs down her head—perchance a tear,
Like a full dew-drop, gathers on her cheek,
And drowns out its carnations.
Mar.
I will hire
The world's opinion till my manners mend.
Life is but one long lesson.
Rogo.
Ah! I fear
Your lesson will be paid for in rude coin.
Now hear me, Marsio; if you are horn-mad,
Wed some fresh country girl, some honest thing,
Too big a fool to be a lady sinner—
Too proud of you to think you aught but perfect—
Too ignorant to know your faults of breeding—
One every way inferior to yourself—
And I will chime in with your marriage-bell.
Mar.
You waste your wisdom, Pietro; I'll wed
No other than Costanza.
[Pulti sings within.]
Rogo.
Hark! here comes
Our merry gossip, Pulti. Let us ask
A fool's advice. Babies and naturals
Speak, sometimes, by a kind of inspiration.
Mar.
You will not condescend?—
Rogo.
'Sblood! he 's a man!
I have no princely notions, like your own,
To pull me from my fellows.
(Enter Pulti, singing.)
Pulti.
The devil wriggled,
The devil squealed,
The devil gave a shout;
35
Held on stoutly,
And put the fiend to rout.
Mar.
Stop your din!
That villain has one long, unending song
About a certain devil, who has seen
More sad adventures than the Golden Legend
Recounts of all its saints.
Pul.
Hem, hem, hem, hem!
Mar.
What do you hem at?
Pul.
I have seen in churches,
When the dull preacher would not hem himself,
The congregation would hem for him.
Rogo.
True.
What thinks your wisdom of your master's marriage?
Pul.
Lord! sir, I seldom think; it spoils my talking.
I scorn your thoughts; the stealthy, spectral things
Smell of the church-yard, and of heaven and hell—
And bygone happiness, and present pain—
And barren futures filled with new-made graves—
And baby-hopes nipped in our nursing arms—
Of all that 's dreary, and of naught that 's bright.
They are huge stoppers for a flowing mouth,
That still by strangling.
Rogo.
Have you naught to say?
Pul.
I'll race my tongue with any man's. I say,
My master will be wiser than he 's rich.
Rogo.
A goodly store of wisdom, that! How, boy?
Pul.
When he has gathered in his bursting brains
36
He'll have more thoughts than ducats.
Rogo.
Marsio, mark:
The knave 's a prophet. What is wedlock like?
Pul.
Much like sin's journey after happiness.
We start upon it with a merry heart,
Proceed upon it with a sober one,
And end—
Rogo.
Ah! yes; where end we?
Pul.
Not at all:
We stumble in our graves.
Rogo.
A gloomy thought.
Pul.
'T is not a thought. I lit upon the fact
By seeing, and not thinking. For your thinkers
Go stumbling headlong in with all the rest,
Thinking of all save death.
Rogo.
Sage doctor Pulti,
You shall teach me your doctrines.
Pul.
I will, sir,
In one short rule.—Keep your eyes ever open.
Mar.
Have you not done? For Pulti will reply
Till doomsday break. 'T is not his wonted mood;
He 's oftener gay than sad.
Pul.
'T is a sad thought—
Note, signore Rogo, thinking makes one sad—
To weigh two losses with a single gain.
Rogo.
Your wit outshoots me.
Pul.
With a feeble shaft.
I, by this marrying, must lose a master;
My poor, poor master—who may comfort him?—
Must lose a servant!—Such a servant, sir!—
So sober—when you keep his wine away;
So sweetly tempered—when you do not cross him;
37
So frugal—when you give him naught to spend;
So every way perfection—where you grow not
The carnal apple to assail his Adam.
I have lived on these conditions, many a day,
The best of slaves.
Rogo.
But where 's your single gain?
Pul.
Nay, 't is but half a one: master and man
Share it between them.—'T is an untried mistress—
A vast, dim, shadowy, uncertain fear,
That may be saint or devil.
Mar.
Pulti!—dog!
Saddle my horses!
Pul.
For the beggar's ride.
Mar.
Dare you presume so far upon my kindness,
You coarse-grained knave?
Pul.
Not I; I never trespass
On such unstable ground.
Rogo.
Where do you ride?
Mar.
Where should a lover ride?
Rogo.
O, pause at once.
All things cry out against this unmeet match:
Blood, rank, and breeding, fortune, friends, and tastes,
In rigid opposition stand between.
You cannot mould these opposites to one;
Force them together, and earth's primal chaos
Were harmony to their eternal jar.
Mar.
You could not move me, had you Tully's tongue;
Prop heaven with virgin gold, you could not buy me;
38
You could not daunt me!—To the horses, Pulti!
Pul.
I am going, sir.
[Sings.]
These horns were worn,
Ere you were born,
The grinning devil said;
Then take no care,
But proudly wear—
Ere you were born,
The grinning devil said;
Then take no care,
But proudly wear—
Mar.
You know this cudgel, sirrah?
Pul.
Thank you; we 've often met before. His name
Is oak; his mother was an acorn. See,
I know the family from end to end.
You need not introduce us, signore.
[Exit.]
Mar.
Rogo,
The aims of my existence have been few,
Yet, in the service of the thing I sought,
I have offered up my health, my life, my soul.
He must be rash, or confident, who stands
Between a zealot and his single mark.—
My horses, Pulti!—I have set my heart
Upon this marriage; let heaven frown or smile,
Till I am blasted into nothingness,
I will pursue it as if heaven were not!—
My horses, knave!
Pulti.
(Without.)
Here, sir. Ho! Lucifer.
Rogo.
I'll try to cross you for your own advantage,
If honest means may prosper.
Mar.
Well, push on!
Choose your own weapons, fight as you think fit;
But, Pietro Rogo, when we are at the tug—
When the blood boils, and timid conscience flies—
39
Is not distinguished from an enemy—
Then call for mercy to the prayer-stunned saints,
And hope an age of miracles may come,
But not to Marsio!—My horses wait.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III.
A Room in the Castle of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
Saw him before?
Costanza.
Yes;—only once before.
Fil.
But where, and how?
Cos.
Can you not call to mind
The day our duke was welcomed by the people?
Fil.
As well as yesterday.
Cos.
Indeed, indeed!
It seems a weary age since then, to me.
Among the nobles, who rode nigh the duke,
Was one who, in all noble qualities
Of port and majesty, rode there supreme:
Clad in black velvet, for his father's death;
Yet wearing a long plume of ostrich white,
As a fit emblem of the general joy.
Fil.
Lord! you know all about him!
Cos.
Yes—why—yes.—
Surely the people talked of him alone.
Fil.
I was beside you, yet I heard them not.
Well, well, go on.
Cos.
It chanced a beggar's child,
A pretty boy—one of those nimble imps
40
And under carriage-wheels—became entangled
In the unusual press; shrieked out for help;
Then, suddenly, was still for very fear.
The whole crowd held its breath, and one great heart
Beat through it all. Now there arose a cry:
Yet while the silly people did but scream,
Down from his charger leaped the cavalier,
Dashed in the throng, and, ere I cried God bless him,
The boy was laughing in his mother's arms!
Fil.
Now, I recall some little scene like that.
Cos.
'T was a great scene! The Duke stretched out his hand;
And, glorious in his dimmed and miry suit,
The hero mounted lightly on his horse.
Some nobles laughed, some sneered, some looked askance;
But all the people raised a mighty shout;
And the great sun, bursting a heavy cloud,
Shone round Juranio like a halo!
Fil.
Brave!
Yet, cousin, I saw not one half that you did.
I heard a child scream; heard some voices call;
Saw a man quickly leap down from his horse;
Heard a faint murmur; then the show went on.—
About the sun and halo I know nothing.
Cos.
'T was many a day ere I forgot the Count;
And when we met this morn, a sudden thrill
Of the old feeling stirred my memory,
And brought me back that moving scene again,—
Which much confused me.
41
Ah! “Which much confused you!”
Take my word, cousin, our heroic Count,
When he caught up the beggar's little boy,
Caught up a certain lady's heart, I wot of.—
But I approve it.
Cos.
What do you approve?
Fil.
The catching up of fair Costanza's heart.
Cos.
I beg you, cousin, not to break your jests
Upon so grave a subject. Had my mother
O'erheard your heedless nonsense, this would be
A stormy day for me.
Fil.
I have a secret—
Nay, a surmise, which I have made a secret—
That casts a fearful shadow.—
Cos.
I am listening.
Fil.
I fear to speak; knowing the steadfast love
You cherish towards your parents.
Cos.
Dear Filippia,
My marriage has perplexed you sadly. Speak;
For it must be your subject. I absolve you
From your hard promises. Come, come, give tongue;
Draw off your rancor to the very dregs:
Ill words, well-purposed, have no mischief in them.
Fil.
Has not your mother an o'er-anxious care
About this marriage?
Cos.
Is it not a duty
She owes my father?
Fil.
But your father looks
So sad and moody! Then he never speaks.
There 's something in his silence.
Cos.
It reveals
The wishes that lie nearest to his heart.
He fears his choice has swayed my inclination;
42
More from a sense of duty than from love:
So he withholds his counsel, leaving me
My own conclusion.
Fil.
Doubtless that might be.
I could unfold such things.—The saints forgive me!
Love, gratitude—owed, if not well repaid—
O, why do you cry out so loud against me?
She took me when a child, a helpless orphan—
When no one else would keep me—when my kin
Hawked me about, with a sour charity,
From one hand to another;—reared me so
That the most jealous eye could not detect
Wherein my training differed from her own,
Her own dear child, Costanza's; for whose sake—
But what affection pardons treachery?
Cos.
Filippia, darling, pray be plain!
Fil.
No, no;
I cannot, dare not. I have said too much.
Your mother's smile will be a long reproach
To me, who should deserve, above all others,
The never-ending smile she suns me in.
I have had thoughts, base, base, degrading thoughts,
But I will kill them, if I perish with them—
Which, but to speak, would make yon old Tiburzzi
Leap up and shudder in their frames; would shake
This ancient roof-tree on my wicked head,
And hide my shame in ruins! It were just.
Believe me not, Costanza; scorn my hints;
Cling to your mother—she is worth your love.
I, I—O, vile!—nay, do not pity me—
Am the most faithless of a high-souled race!
43
What mean you? Speak!—You do not love me. Speak!—
What is this mystery? Speak!
Fil.
No; never more.
We must all wreck together; I am dumb.
44
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
45
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,
46
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?—
47
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—
48
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
49
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!
50
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
51
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.
52
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?
53
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,
54
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.
55
That saves the sin.
Pul.
I am not tender-minded.
I have the knack of talking sins to naught,
With your best casuists. Use your pleasure, master.
(Sings.)
I have the knack of talking sins to naught,
With your best casuists. Use your pleasure, master.
Quoth the fiend, I was born
On a Friday morn,
My fall out of heaven was Friday,
On a Friday the reign
From my kingdom was ta'en;—
The curse of the seven was Friday!
On a Friday morn,
My fall out of heaven was Friday,
On a Friday the reign
From my kingdom was ta'en;—
The curse of the seven was Friday!
To-day is Friday, sir.
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.]
56
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
57
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.]
58
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?
59
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.
60
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.
61
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,—
62
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:
63
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.
64
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,
65
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.
66
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!
67
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—
68
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,
69
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!
70
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
71
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.]
72
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
The House of Marsio. Marsio and Pietro RogoMarsio.
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,
73
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
74
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,
75
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.
76
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.]
77
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;
78
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
79
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—
80
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,
81
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—
82
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?
83
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]
84
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.
85
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,
86
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.
87
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;
88
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—
89
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,
90
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:
91
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—
92
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!
93
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.]
94
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?
95
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.]
96
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The house of Marsio. Enter Marsio.Marsio.
Kneel to Costanza,—test her constancy!
There 's something in me mutinies at that:
But she shall have full vengeance. Kneel to her!
As if I were not. Have I fallen so low
That this fine gentleman, this courtly scum,
Scorns to regard me? Traffic for her, too!
As if I kept my lady on my shelves,
To wait a market. On my life, you'll find
My heart boils sometimes, and the reek is death
To such as stir it! She shall be revenged!
[Draws forth a vial.]
Now, trembling liquid, who, to look at thee—
At thy pale, sickly aspect—at thy bulk,
Cowering to nothing in thy crystal house—
Would think that thou couldst give so brave a fall
To his befeathered Countship? What, canst thou
Stiffen the strong steel sinews of yon man
Who wields the sword so featly? As I live,
I doubt thee, mainly! Come, one sturdy shake,
To rouse thy courage. Ha! my little fellow,
How thou dost caper! Thou hast spirit, yet.
But how to face thee with thy enemies?
'T would fix suspicion on me, to be seen
Hanging around their cups. Now, could I bribe
Some fool among the servants—but whom, but whom?
97
There 's Pulti—Pulti—
(Enter Pulti.)
Pulti.
At your elbow, sir,
Quoth sin unto the devil.
Mar.
Merry dog!
What brought you back?
Pul.
You left so hastily,
I thought I might be wanted.
Mar.
Faithful heart!
Here is a trifle for you. By my soul,
Your love deserves it richly, Pulti.
[Gives a purse.]
Pul.
Well,
It makes him so much poorer. [Aside.]
Mar.
Pulti—
Pul.
Signore.
Mar.
You love your master, Pulti?
Pul.
That I do!
I 'd swim through burning brimstone for my master—
Good signore Salvatore! [Aside.]
Mar.
Bravely said!
Now, had your master two unresting foes—
Dogging his footsteps—crossing his fair plans—
Marring his hopes—turning his sweetest cup,
Ere it were tasted, to cruel bitterness—
Pursuing him with most vindictive hate—
Ever hot-footed on his way of life,
Beating its quiet path to choking dust;
Until your heart-sick master—note me, Pulti—
Longed for the grave to hide him from their wrath;
What would you do, brave, noble fellow, ha?
Pul.
Cut them to slivers!
Mar.
Famous! Rashly bold,
98
You 'd take this vial, hidden in your sleeve—
Thus, Pulti, thus—and when the wine went round,
You 'd slyly drop five drops—no more nor less—
In each one's cup—ha! Pulti? And, next day,
This vast machine of earth would tumble on,
As if these dreadful bullies ne'er had been.—
Would you not, Pulti?
Pul.
Yes, indeed. I'll swear—
Tell me some fearful oath to swear it by.
Mar.
Poh! poh! These bugbear oaths are children's toys,
Mere scare-crow buckram, to the big-souled men
Who do such mighty deeds. But you would say—
All quietly, in silent, breathless words—
My master and myself are in one boat,
And sink or swim together.—Would you not?
Pul.
I would be cautious.
Mar.
Doubtless, my wise boy!
Prudence and courage make a powerful yoke
To tug along the world.
Pul.
I take you, sir—
As rats are taken.—O! I slander rats.
[Aside.]
Mar.
But will you do it?
Pul.
By this hand, I will.
Mar.
I love to shake an honest comrade's hand.
There 's more gold, Pulti—millions, millions, boy—
And you shall share it. You shall revel out
A prince's ransom; live a gentleman,
And kick work to the devil. Hey! my trump!
Pul.
Who are these enemies?
Mar.
You long to see
The villains drink each other's healths?
99
Ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
O! bless me, you are droll!
Mar.
These are our foes—
Yours, Pulti, and my own—that velvet Count,
That clothes-pin, modish Count Juranio,
And signore Salvatore, carte and tierce,
The ruffian, with his beaver on one side,
Who swaggers through the world, and pushes all
That do not please him in the kennel. 'Sblood!
'T were no great harm to cut such fools adrift;
'T would save some lace a sunning, and give steel
A holy rest.
Pul.
Lord! how you draw them, sir!
Those very men have troubled me a deal.
Give me some ratsbane.
Mar.
Just before the feast,
I'll slip it in your hand. Be faithful, Pulti;
There 's no such gold as mine.
Pul.
Have faith in me.
May heaven forsake me, when I leave my master!
Mar.
Bring out the horses. I must back again:
My absence will be noted.
Pul.
Bless you, bless you!—
I find it in my heart to bless you, sir,
That you employed no one but me for this.
[Exit.]
Mar.
The knave 's a God-send! Who had ever thought
That little, crooked Marsio could wake
So warm a feeling in the breast of man?
Why, what a cat's-paw for my dangerous nut
The ready villain is! I never deemed
The monstrous wretch was crammed so full of sin:
He poisons at a hint. Heaven save you, Count!
100
Heaven save you, too, bold signore Salvatore!
My dashing swordsman, we will break your guard.
Heaven save you both together, gentlemen!
I'll bow you to your graves to-morrow morn!
[Exit.]
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Castle of the Marquis. Enter Salvatore and Pulti, meeting.Pulti.
Stand back! I'm Marsio's chief poisoner!
[Sings.]
Quoth the devil, I'll mix
Both the Acheron and Styx,
To brew them a deadly potation—
Both the Acheron and Styx,
To brew them a deadly potation—
Lord! I'm too gay to sing.
Salvatore.
Why, Pulti, Pulti!
Pul.
Unearthed, at last! The fox has broken ground,
And I am holding to his brush—ho! ho!
[Laughing.]
Saint Dunstan's tongs were mercy to this hand.
O! but I have him!
Sal.
Pulti, are you crazed?
Pul.
Half mad with joy. Here is his precious plot—
Sal.
Whose plot?
Pul.
Why, Marsio's. What other fiend
Could shape one like it? Had you seen me, sir,
Just playing with him, like a well-hooked fish;
I gave him all my line.
Sal.
Now for the plot.
101
Then tremble! Signore Marsio—Ho! ho!
[Laughing.]
The devil catch me! I must laugh it out.
Well, signore Marsio has hired me, me—
Me, me—his Pulti—do you understand?—
To poison you and Count Juranio.
Sal.
Ha!—Where, and how?
Pul.
O! at the feast to-night.
Sal.
In meat or wine?
Pul.
In wine. The merry ape
Would see you two pledging each other's healths;
Just for the joke's sake. Do you take it?
Sal.
Yes:
How the sky brightens after Marsio's thunder!
Bless his invention! I will match his coin.
Some paper, quickly.
Pul.
Here, sir.
[Showing paper, on a table.]
Sal.
Let me think.
Now, school of Padua, help thy dullest scholar
To mix a draught for Marsio. 'Ods blood!
I have not practised physic for so long,
That I scarce recollect the crooked things
Which stand for drachms and scruples.
Pul.
Never care
For scruples, only call the drachms to mind:
I long to dose him.
Sal.
Ah! I have it now:
It all comes back together. (Writes.)
Here we are;
Signed, Doctor Salvatore. Pulti, run—
Ask for the next apothecary—run!
Our time is short.
[Gives a paper.]
Pul.
Here is a full receipt
For all your poundings, master Marsio!
102
You'll throw the drug in Marsio's cup. Fly, fly!
But where 's his poison? You must get me that.
Pul.
As soon as Marsio puts it in my hands.
Sal.
Enough—away!
[Exit Pulti, singing.]
Quoth the man to the devil,
Thou spirit of evil,
Foul poison is brewed from fair peaches;
A curse on your vowings!
Your scrapings and bowings,
Like poison may lurk in fair speeches.
Thou spirit of evil,
Foul poison is brewed from fair peaches;
A curse on your vowings!
Your scrapings and bowings,
Like poison may lurk in fair speeches.
Sal.
Bright Cupid and dark Death
Join hands, in an unnatural fellowship,
Like morn and midnight at the northern pole;
But I can see a pathway, green with hope,
Beneath the twilight.
(Enter the Marquis di Tiburzzi.)
Marquis.
Can you spare a moment?
Sal.
Your question wrongs me: I would gladly spend
A lifetime in your service.
Marq.
I believe you:
Although men's tongues too oft outnoise their deeds,
And gain in clamor what they lose in aim.
When you approached me for my niece's hand,
I saw in you such manly qualities
As led me to receive you, not alone
As her best suitor, but as my best friend.
You are a man of action, I am not;
You are a man of hopeful vigor; cares
103
And age puts forth no more. Sir, I am old,
Feeble, and hopeless; I would have a friend.
Sal.
Confide in me.
Marq.
I need your confidence—
Not for myself; these gray hairs warn me oft
That I shall drop into my barren grave
Ere many seasons; but my daughter lives,
To blossom o'er my ruins, or to wither.
God only knows.
Sal.
To blossom, bear, and yield,
In holy sunshine!
Marq.
And you know her fate,—
Her vile betrothal to this Marsio?
Sal.
Did you not make it?
Marq.
No! they juggled me.
Her—Well, well, signore, I 'd not think of that.
Now, I would break the bond; but Marsio
Holds my ancestral debts, and threatens me
With whips and galleys. I could bear them all,
If that would free Costanza.
Sal.
Let me add
Another misery, then break the whole.
Your daughter loves Juranio.
Marq.
Gracious heaven!
Woe piles on woe! Had I a choice of men,
I would have picked him for her.
Sal.
Rightly too,
You would have picked the flower. Your simple word,
To follow, without flaw, what I design,
Shall free Costanza, wed her to the Count,
And ransom you.
104
You mock me.
Sal.
Mock you!
No, no; I'll show you what I rest upon.
Marq.
You seem a sober man.
Sal.
To Marsio
I am fate's deputy. Crime gives a hold
Which rivets the transgressor to an end,
So helpless, that an infant's careless hand
May pull a giant to his doom.
Marq.
Crime!
Sal.
Crime.
Marq.
Dear heaven, might this be true! I know him cruel—
Ay, guilty—but not within the scope of law.
Sal.
Have I no credit?
Marq.
Yes; I yield you all—
My faith, my honor. Guide me as you list:
You cannot worst my chance.
Sal.
Then hear my tale—
More fitted to draw blood than tears, my lord:
That scheming crawler, Marsio, has hired
A man, who loves Juranio and myself,
To poison us.
Marq.
O, horror! Has the wretch
Such depths in his dark soul?
Sal.
It so appears.
Marq.
I'll hurl him from my windows! Shall a roof
That hung so long 'twixt heaven and noble men,
Fence off God's justice?
Sal.
Softly, sir, I pray!
He must attempt the poisoning, or we lose
Our grasp upon him.
105
True. What cause can he
Set up to satisfy him with his crime?
Sal.
Against Juranio, 't is jealousy.
Marq.
I see. Your kinsman was the cavalier
Who met Costanza in the Park.
Sal.
No other:
And plead his suit most bravely, but in vain:
She made her love an offering for your life.
Marq.
Poor girl!
Sal.
Now, hear my mandates.
Marq.
But your plan—
What is your plan?
Sal.
It must unfold itself.
I have a shift for Marsio's every turn:
One lost, another wins.
Marq.
I am content.
'T is better with you; I have ever marred
Whate'er I touched. Lay your commands upon me.
Sal.
Provide a priest, and have such papers drawn,
As the law orders, to unite in wedlock
Costanza and Juranio. At the feast,
See you produce them when I call for them.
Marq.
It shall be done. O, signore Salvatore,
See you be well prepared upon your part.
I count my life as nothing; but my daughter,
My only daughter—Look you do not slip:
You might enrage, not foil, his villany;
And draw a double ruin on her head.
Sal.
Fear not; even now I hold such evidence
As makes the life of signore Marsio
Not worth a felon's claim. How Pulti tarries!
[Aside.]
You will pardon me, if I take leave, my lord?
106
Go, signore, go. Ask me to pardon you!
God shield you, sir! You shall have all the prayers
My age may mutter, 'twixt the coming night
And that far darker night, towards which my steps,
By slow degrees, are narrowing to their end.
Sal.
Cheer, cheer, my lord! The shadows fly from us;
Day treads upon the dusky heels of night!
Even now my herald hopes fly far above,
Shaking the morning from their shining wings!
Ho! laugh, laugh, and be merry.
Marq.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
Your hearty courage is infectious, sir!
[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE III.
Another Room in the Castle. Enter Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
[Sings.]
Love-lorn Lucy
On a bank sat sighing,
Ah, well a day! ah, well a day!
My fickle love has flown away,
And left me here a-dying,
On a bank sat sighing,
Ah, well a day! ah, well a day!
My fickle love has flown away,
And left me here a-dying,
False, false pledges!
Why did I receive them?
Vows are but words, words are but air,
And air can blow both foul and fair:
Why did I believe them?
Why did I receive them?
Vows are but words, words are but air,
And air can blow both foul and fair:
Why did I believe them?
107
Ah! light-hearted,
Would thy scorn might slay me!
O! would thy wrongs might end my pain!
Or would that thou mightst come again,
And again betray me!
Would thy scorn might slay me!
O! would thy wrongs might end my pain!
Or would that thou mightst come again,
And again betray me!
There 's a light song to cheer you.
Costanza.
Woful cheer!
Fil.
Why, what' s the matter, cousin? How you droop!
Here 's a strange countenance for a festival!
Take my advice; follow your honest heart;
For those who oftenest trust their knavish heads
Are oftenest led by a fool's bauble. Run,
Run for dear life! Away, girl, Count and all!
I'll cover your retreat.
Cos.
This mockery
Is cruel and useless. How my doom draws on!
It seems to me as if the viewless hours
Have changed themselves to some substantial thing,
And I can hear them roaring by my ears,
Like a vast tide,—alas! alas! how swiftly!
Fil.
Did she but know how gayly nimble Time
Is floating on Love's shallop, she would kiss
The slandered gray-beard. I will tell her. No;
'T is Salvatore's secret. [Aside.]
Cos.
Cousin, cousin,
I cannot marry Marsio! Each step
That brings me nearer to him shows the man
More hideous; and, alas!—I tell you all—
Contrast makes Count Juranio appear
Almost a god to him.
Fil.
Why, so he is;
108
Marsio 's no man; Marsio 's an outcast imp,
Banished among us for such evil deeds
As set the fiends to staring!
Cos.
Misery!
Have you no word of comfort? I implore
Your kindlier feelings, and you meet my grief
With scoffs and jeers. Why do you not sustain
My tottering firmness? Has my lot become
Too low, too mean, for pity? Must I stand
By my own power? So be it, then; I'll stand,
Though my heart break within me!
Fil.
I must tell her.
(Enter Salvatore. Filippia and Salvatore talk apart.)
Salvatore.
Have you kept counsel?
Fil.
By the hardest, though.
Don't glare at me. I have obeyed you, tyrant.
Lord! if you frown so at the maid, the wife
Must feed her love on cudgels!
Sal.
Peace, peace, peace!
Your love shall have sound diet. It was well—
Look you, Filippia—it was well I came.
Fil.
'T is always well when Salvatore comes.
Sal.
Bah! you mad witch! I love you fearfully.
Fil.
And so you show it. I can never tell,
When you come nigh me, whether you intend
To cut my throat or kiss me.
Sal.
Instance this.
[Kisses her.]
Fil.
I know not yet.
Sal.
Till you are satisfied,
I'll smother you in kisses. [Kisses her.]
109
Ruffian, stop!
Look at my ruffle. O! had you rude men
To do our starching! Woo me by main strength!
Sal.
Out on your arts! Your wicked witchery
Makes me forget myself—your cousin too.
Fil.
She did not note you.
Sal.
I must speak with her.
[Advances to Costanza.]
Lady Costanza, dare you trust your honor
In my poor hands?
Cos.
Had I a fear of it,
There I should place it.
Fil.
Justly spoken, cousin!
Make him your fate. See what I gain by it,—
A crumpled ruffle, and a bleeding lip.
Sal.
Time presses; I must through at once.
[Aside.]
Fil.
Well, well!
Here 's better than yourself to whisper to.
Sal.
Lady Costanza, without argument,
Give me your word to do as I direct,
And I engage to scatter your worst fears,
And crown your brightest hopes with full success.
I hold your future in my happy hands:
My power is ample, and my purpose just.
For—mark this, lady—should I trench upon
Your nicest honor, by the act, I free you
From any compact.
Cos.
Signore Salvatore,
You mean this kindly, and I take it so,
But know it baseless.
Sal.
Only promise.
Fil.
Do!
110
'T is said that drowning beggars sometimes vow
Rich churches to the saint who'll spare their lives;
So I—passing my word upon your terms—
Promise, if you fulfil your marvellous pledge,
That which defies our voluntary power—
My dearest love.
Fil.
Poh! poh! Costanza, “love!”
O! what a doleful effort to be gay!
Pray, use some cooler term—the man is mine—
Say friendship, or affection, or the like:
I dread your rivalry.
Sal.
Filippia lays
Our serious feelings, as if they were devils.
Fil.
He takes her part! Now I am jealous, sir.
Come, lead her off from this sad theme.
[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Alas!
Here comes the theme itself.
(Enter Marsio and Juranio.)
Marsio.
Pray, look you, ladies;
Here is he that once was Count Juranio;
But, now, how fallen, how spent and spiritless!
I tried an hour to work a smile from him,
But lost my labor.
Fil.
What 's the trouble, Count?
Sal.
Are you a man? [Apart to Juranio.]
Juranio.
There is the misery,
That I am man; would I were more or less!
[Aside.]
Mar.
I even took him to your bower, Costanza;
Showed what a lurking-place for love it is;
111
Omitting nothing: but he never smiled.
Then I went through my plans of wedded bliss;
Told him how soon my marriage-day would come;
Invited him to see it.—On my faith,
Methinks I turned a prophet, for his sake—
Did I not, Count?—and in a vision saw
My stretching line of noble progeny.
I named them too—ha! ha! I named them for him!
[Laughing.]
Called one Juranio. Striving thus to cheer
His melancholy with my happiness:
But yet he never smiled. When he would speak,
'T was only “Marsio, O! were I you!”
And then he 'd blush, and catch his sentence up
With—“I 'd do so and so”—some petty thing,
Beneath my memory. Even now he talked,
So sweetly talked, of “Death, dear, pleasant death!
What a kind thing it is that weary men,
After the jading day of eager life,
Can lay them gently in their earthy beds,
And sleep their cares away!” So well he spoke,
That, for his eloquence, I nearly killed him,
Out of sheer pity.
Sal.
What a man is this!
But justice' arm is up. [Aside.]
(Filippia, Juranio, and Salvatore, talk apart.)
Mar.
(Apart to Costanza.)
They tell me, lady,
You were insulted in the Park, to-day,
By some presuming dunce's love.—Nay, nay;
112
As I would wish you.
Cos.
Ha! he knows it all:
I see such meaning in his face. I fear—
[Aside.]
A word, sir, with Juranio.
Mar.
With whom?
Cos.
With Count Juranio.
Mar.
Not a whisper. Lady,
We mostly add men's titles to their names.
(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
My lord awaits you, gentlemen.
Mar.
On, on!
The feast invites us. Count Juranio,
We'll drown your gloomy humors in our wine.
Come, gentlemen. To-night is lovers' eve—
Conduct your lady, signore Salvatore;
I too will use the time's sweet privilege:
Think me not rude, Count. By your leave, Costanza.
[Exit with Costanza.]
Sal.
You promise me?
Ju.
Ay; use me as you will:
I lack employment for myself.
Sal.
Go on.
Fil.
Without you, signore?
Sal.
Yes.—Make some excuse.
O! where is Pulti? Fate hangs on his steps!
[Exeunt on one side, Filippia and Juranio; on the other, Salvatore.]
113
SCENE IV.
An Ante-Room in the Castle. Enter Pulti.Pulti.
(Sings.)
With each grain of Heaven's goodness,
I will mix one of woodness,
And ten solid grains of pure evil;
Do whatever you can,
You must bolt all, my man,
Or starve, quoth to Adam the devil.
(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
Your fiendish ditty is a guide, at least.
Well met! Your news?
Pul.
I barely saved my time.
The guests are down, and I am sent to seek you.
Sal.
Is the cup drugged?
Pul.
I mixed the powders in,
And poured the wine around, ere I came off.
Sal.
Two powders?
Pul.
Two.
Sal.
Victoria! The one
Shall rack him shrewdly, with a piercing colic,
Until the opiate act; when he will fall,
Upon a sudden, in a torpid stupor,
Which will so balance between life and death,
That but a feather's weight might turn the beam,
And land him in eternity.
Pul.
It might?
114
I'll leap into the balance bodily.
Sal.
No, Pulti; I 've not closed with Marsio.
To-morrow I must buy the Marquis' debts,
On my own terms; death would upset my bargain.
Pul.
Here 's Marsio's poison.
[Gives the vial.]
Sal.
Precious, precious vial!
You hold the happiness of two dear hearts
Pent in your narrow compass!
Pul.
Is that all?
Methinks it comes to little, when 't is brought
Down to a liquid form. Had I believed
A lover's prophecies upon this point,
I 'd have been fool enough to build an ark,
Against a second deluge. What a close
To all your rhapsodies! Here 's a scant bath
For a foul fly!
Sal.
Enough to drown your wit.
Pul.
If that 's the substance of love's happiness,
Pray trust it to my handling. I will bear it,
As friars do rare relics, through the land,
To strengthen bachelors in their religion.
Sal.
Prodigious atheist!
Pul.
Holy maniac!
Now, which is better, a sound infidel,
Or a cracked devotee? Let Heaven decide.
Sal.
Back to your master, knave! his fellowship
Sorts with your feelings.
Pul.
'T is a doleful thing,
That our gay world can yield a healthy man
No company but lunatics or rogues:
The wise are villains, and the honest fools.
115
To find one modest flower in all the crop!
Sal.
I prophecy a cardinal's cap for you,
If you will preach thus in the market-place.
I must be off. O, Pulti, Pulti, Pulti,
If ever man loved man, I dote on you!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V.
The Great Hall of the Castle. A feast spread. At which are seated the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi, Marsio, Costanza, Filippia, Juranio, and other Guests. Servants in waiting. Enter Pulti, and stands behind Marsio. Then enter Salvatore, and seats himself.Marquis.
We wait you, signore.
Salvatore.
Pardon my delay:
My need was urgent.
Marsio.
I have kept the wine.
Our cups, o'erbrimming with the sunny juice,
Stand to attend you.
Sal.
'T was a needless pause.
I never taste the vintage. By your leave,
I'll use the grape, as nature gives it to us,
Thus, in the ripened fruit. For I hold wine
To be a most ingenious fraud of Satan's;
Who is so ready to change Heaven's best gifts
Into some tempting form of sin. 'T is true
A healthy apple cozened mother Eve;
But I have wondered at that barefaced trick
Upon the simple woman. Why did not
The guileful devil change it into cider,
116
Is of my way of thinking.
Juranio.
I! what, I!
Why, Salvatore, I would quaff a sea
Of the rich earthly Lethe, were our night
Stretched to a polar length.
Mar.
You hear him, sir:
The Count is wild for wassail. You will not
Refuse my lady's health? 'Sblood! should this dog
Lap water only? Pulti, is it done?
[Apart to Pulti.]
Pulti.
You'll find it so.—Ho! ho!—
[Laughing.]
Mar.
Hist! be discreet.
[Apart to Pulti.]
Sal.
I will not balk you, to be curious.
A toast, a toast!
Mar.
Rise, sirs. Our union!
[They drink.]
Sal.
Simple and pregnant. Cleopatra's pearl
Suffers discredit by your tasteful pledge.
I drank it, with good relish, to the dregs;
Ay, and forgot my enmity to wine,
In seeing with what gust you boused it down.
Mar.
You flatter me. Your kinsman holds his peace:
I hope I touched him.
Sal.
Him! Why, look you, now;
His cup is dry,—the very moisture gone:
Heavens! what a fiery thirst!
Costanza.
Your lover's spirits
Mount to a wondrous height. It makes one sad
To see a man so merry.
Filippia.
Wait a while,
And his high spirits shall fly off with you.
Cos.
You have a hopeful fancy: it must be
A sorry thing to mark its failures.
117
No;
I have fresh hopes to help the lame ones on.
They are like flowers that, dying, run to seed,
And multiply the race.—See, Marsio!
March.
What is the matter, signore?
Mar.
Nothing, nothing:
A passing pain.
Sal.
You drink too eagerly.
A sudden rush of wine into the frame
Shakes it with spasms sometimes.
Mar.
Are you a leech?
Physic yourself—'Sblood!
March.
Signore!—
Mar.
I am ill.
[They all rise.]
Sal.
Pray will you test my leechcraft?
Mar.
I feel faint.
Nay; I am stronger now. Come hither, Pulti.
What does this mean?
Pul.
I cannot tell.
Mar.
Those men,
Those devilish villains—Pulti, do you see them?—
Look well and merry. Ere this time, the snakes
Should have crawled homeward, with their venom in.
The poison but fulfils what nature skipt:
While I—Augh! Pulti—
[Apart to Pulti.]
Pul.
Let me see. (Runs to the table.)
O, Lord!
O! signore Marsio is poisoned! O!
The cups are changed. You drank the—
Mar.
Traitor, hold!
Or I will cut you to the belt!
March.
Good heaven!
Poisoned?
118
Is this your plot? You—
Sal.
Wait the issue.
[Apart to the Marquis.]
March.
Run, run—a doctor!
Mar.
Forty thousand doctors
Were forty thousand short.
Cos.
How feel you, signore?
Mar.
Out! smooth drab!—O!—O!
Sal.
You have sprung the trap,
But caught yourself for game.
Mar.
Who did this thing?
Sal.
I.
Mar.
Hear! he confesses it. Seize on them—
Juranio and that man—my murderers!
March.
Ay; seize them, seize them!
[The Guests draw.]
Sal.
Patience, gentlemen,
I make you no resistance. On my honor,
I will not try to fly.
Mar.
A poisoner's honor!
Mercy, what a pang! 'Sdeath! an officer—
Send for an officer! Quick, quick—break up—
I do denounce them both—we'll have no feast!
Sal.
Ay, but we will; a marriage, too.
Mar.
How, how?
Sal.
We'll use Juranio, when you are gone.
Mar.
Ah, dog! may your tongue rot!
Sal.
Before you, signore?
Mar.
Silence the miscreant! Are you men, to see—
O, heaven! these pains!
Ju.
What means this, Salvatore?
Sal.
Peace, my dear boy; the time is mine.
Mar.
You think—
119
You think, I say, when the grave swallows me,
To wed?—Ha! do ye? If the dead can rise—
And I will up! I'll haunt you till ye pray
To sleep beside me. I will crawl between
Your eager kisses with my wormy lips;
I'll eat with you; I'll drink—I'll drink again—
O, heaven! some water, water! I consume—
Till all my flesh has rotted from me. Gods!
Ha! ha! I'll make a merry guest! You wretch—
Now I feel easier—you Salvatore,
I'll fight with you, through all your odious days,
Until I drive you in your grave. O! curse you!
Do I look better? I may yet be well.
O! O! these searching cramps! Where do you go?
Come back, I say! I will not die alone!
I do denounce them—Pulti, Pulti too.
Seize them—seize all! Have pity on me, Heaven!
I will—I will!—The room is full of smoke.
Cut down the poisoners! I am not dead yet!
[Draws, rushes at Juranio, and falls.]
O! mercy, heaven! O! curse you—O!
[Faints.]
Sal.
Well done!
He shows his death-bed in perspective.
March.
Base,
Base man, to glory in your victim's death!
Sirs, apprehend him.
[The Guests advance.]
Sal.
Gently, gentlemen—
I use my cutlery with the best of you—
Marsio 's not dead. A simple opiate
Caused all this terror.
Fil.
'T is ill news, but true.
Find out some den to keep this monster in.
[Servants carry off Marsio.]
120
Wake from your apathy! You stand like marble.
Cos.
I never dreamed such horrors.
Ju.
What, not dead?
March.
O! joy, joy, joy!
Sal.
Call in your priest and notary.
Are they in waiting?
Marq.
As I promised you.
But I can scarcely see my way through this.
(Enter a Priest and a Notary.)
Sal.
I am your pilot: trust me.
Marq.
As you will.
Sal.
Now sign this paper, lady; and you, Count.
'T is hasty, not dishonorable. Keep faith.
Cos.
How, sir!
Ju.
But, Salvatore, Marsio lives.
Sal.
He lives a felon! And I roundly swear,
If you two people are not wed to-night,
I'll have him hung upon a moving gallows,
And wheel him after you around the world.
I'll have no trifling.
March.
Marsio a felon!
Sal.
He sought to poison Count Juranio,
And honored me by joining me with him.
Where are you, Pulti?
Pulti.
Here, sir. Room, room, room,
For Marsio's prime minister of drugs!
This vial, and my oath, might go some lengths
To speed his journey to a hotter world.
Advance my relique!
[Salvatore shows the vial.]
March.
O! the horrid viper!
What an escape poor, dear Costanza made!
121
You still hang back?
Cos.
My father still is bound.
Sal.
He is well cared for. Ere another day,
I pledge myself to buy your father's debts
At my own price. 'Sdeath! do you falter now?
My lord, your promise.
Marq.
I command you, daughter:
Obey my friend.
March.
Is Count Juranio rich?
[Apart to the Marquis.]
Marq.
Pshaw! madam.
Cos.
I obey—perhaps too kindly;
But the mere thought of your security
Sends my heart upward, like a loosened bird,
Dizzy with hope, and strength, and ecstasy;
For I am free again! (Turns to Salvatore.)
To you I owe
More than a common show of gratitude;
But, now, forgive me; my o'erflowing thoughts
Would drown the happy prospect of my speech,
By sheer abundance of their offerings.
To you, Juranio—
Ju.
Nay, dear Costanza,
Let my heart whisper what your words might be.
Sal.
Hide all your roses in your lover's breast.
Go talk it over, go—we'll never look—
Then come to us, and notary and priest
Shall knit you up.
Ju.
Dear kinsman—
Sal.
Silence, sir!
This place is nauseous with stale sentiment.
Mind your affairs; I 've business of my own.
Fair lady, have I won?
122
Yes, Salvatore.
[Giving her hand.]
Would it were worthier!
Sal.
Not for my sake, love:
You cannot add a morsel to content.
Marq.
Peace crown you all! I have such friends, at last,
As money could not buy—the gifts of heaven:
I thank it humbly. As for Marsio,
He'll wake to-morrow, and behold what gulfs
Crime opens 'twixt the richest criminal
And the frank brotherhood of honest men,
However poor,—gulfs that must yawn forever!
123
THE WIDOW'S MARRIAGE: A COMEDY.
124
- Lord Guy Ruffler, A gallant.
- Sir William Travers, His friend.
- Harry Goldstraw, Nephew to Lady Goldstraw
- Hopeful, Suitor to Lady Goldstraw.
- Sir John Pollen, Suitor to Lady Goldstraw.
- Lord Foam, Suitor to Lady Goldstraw.
- Marks, Suitor to Lady Goldstraw.
- Darkly, Servant to Ruffler.
- Nick Prior, Servant to Lady Goldstraw.
- Lady Goldstraw, An old and wealthy widow.
- Madge, Her daughter.
- Dolly Flare, Lady Goldstraw's maid.
- Ladies, Gallants, Tradesmen, Servants, &c.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
125
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Street in London. Enter Sir William Travers and Lord Guy Ruffler.Travers.
Guy, I will not! This dodging petticoats
Round the street-corners—peeping into shops—
Leering, with shameless meaning, under hoods—
Staring hot blushes into modest cheeks—
And fancying a favor if you catch
A wandering glance—is sheer against my manhood.
Tut! man, you slander all your female kin
By this procedure.
Ruffler.
(Looking off.)
Do I?—Pah! look there:
Into the goldsmith's shop! Can they not see
That I am looking at them? Travers, come,
We'll enter, too: I want a ring—a chain.—
'Sblood! are the women fools?
Trav.
There seem to be
Two fools among them.
Ruf.
Speak you for yourself?
Stand here a while.
126
For what? To be the butt
Of my sharp self-contempt? Ruffler!
[Shaking him.]
Ruf.
(Still looking off.)
Hey!
Trav.
Nay;
I'm talking to you.
Ruf.
As my grandmother.
Trav.
You need it. Look you, listen to me, Guy;
Do you hold woman of no higher use—
Ruf.
Pish! let me go: I 've business in that shop.
Unhand me, pray.
[Struggles to get away.]
Trav.
No, sir, you shall not go.
I cannot see an insult thrust upon
A modest woman; and the man who can,
Without his nature flaming into wrath,
And his arm lifting with instinctive might,
Deserves to have his sisters, mother, wife,
Tossed in together at a city's sack,
While he looks on in powerless agony.
Ruf.
You could not please them better. What a stir,
Among the velvets and the damasked silks,
There was when the invading French were feared!
What rubbing up of jewels, what a dust
Among old finery! How some delicate maid
Would squeak, in her high treble, “Dear mamma,
They say those monsters do not spare the weak:
Let us be caught as ladies!” Then the dame
Would smooth her powder, with a gentle sigh
Of patient resignation. On my life,
I never saw the women in such feather!
You 'd thought the land was dressed for holiday,
Not for invasion. All the time, we men
Stood trembling, like huge jellies, for our throats;
127
Made nothing of their honors!
Trav.
Monstrous stuff!
I would not share your notions of the sex,
To win a tribe of Helens. I can see,
Within the simple innocence and truth
Of uncorrupted woman, a fair spirit,
Ranked, by all-seeing Heaven, not far beneath
Its sinless denizens.
Ruf.
(Laughing.)
Now Heaven forgive
His wicked blasphemy! I'll draw you woman,
According to her earthly character,
Not as your poets make her. Woman, Will,
Is animated vanity. A toy
Made up each morning, by a forward whim,
That scarcely lasts the day through. The same sigh
Over a broken fan, or a broken heart,
Measures her depth of feeling. A long stare
At the last fashion, on a rival's back,
Shows her ambition. A conspicuous seat
At church, or theatre, where she may be
The conscious centre of a thousand eyes,
Shows her religion, or her taste. The power
To bear hot sentiment, and frigid love,
Her soul's endurance proves. Ask her to give
Her hero's character, and when you have
The color of his eyes, and hair, and cloak,
You'll praise her nice perception. See her weed
Her eyebrows of gray hairs, or paint her cheeks,
And there 's her industry, and love of art.
Come to her death-bed—
Trav.
Nay.
128
Well, end her there:
The thing is soulless, and can go no further.
Yet, for all this, a very pretty doll
For man to dandle.
Trav.
If the heavens be just,
You'll pay this one day. Guy, I reverence woman.
Ruf.
For what? Here 's a discovery, indeed!
For what?
Trav.
For many things. And yet there is
One thing I never fully understood,—
Love, love.
Ruf.
Why, that 's the simplest thing on earth.
Trav.
The very simplest! Were you e'er in love?
Ruf.
Always.
Trav.
With whom?
Ruf.
With everything that wears
More than a yard of velvet in its skirts.
You are a world too wise for happiness.
Trav.
The man who looks for it beyond himself
Is a mere fool. But, Ruffler, I intend
To marry shortly.
Ruf.
Heaven preserve your victim!
What, you'll set traps, ha? Scheme her to your bed?
Play on her weakness? and declare, the while,
How much you reverence her; as travellers say
Some pagans do, who flog unmercifully
Their painted gods, and worship them, by turns.
You talk of taking a poor maid, as though
She were an oyster.—Hist! they leave the shop,
And come this way.
Trav.
In decency retire.
Ruf.
Not I, by Jove!
129
To please me, Guy.
Ruf.
Poh! poh!
You are too much humored.
Trav.
For a moment, then,
Until I can escape.
Ruf.
Well, well; come on.
A woman, more or less, is little gained,
And nothing lost. Sneak, dodge;—I am with you.
[They walk up the stage.]
(Enter Lady Goldstraw and Madge.)
Lady Goldstraw.
La! they are there again. It is too bad:
I cannot walk abroad, to feel the sun,
Without these shadows following. Every day
A pack of courtiers dog me to my door;
Or walk before me, dropping billet-doux;
And one, but Thursday last—I tell you, Madge—
Cast a French plume, that must have cost the knave
A good ten pound, in hope I would return it.
Madge.
And did you not?
Lady G.
Not I, you silly child!
I set my little foot upon it, thus,
And ground it in the mire; to show my pride,
And brave, contemptuous spirit. Mark those men:
See how the tall one eyes me. Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
A proper fellow, too, and bravely trimmed:
A courtier, doubtless. I do wonder, now,
If 't was that villain twitched my dress and sighed,
As we came through the church-door!—Mercy! Madge,
Don't stare so at them. Fie! you naughty child,
I'm blushing for you. Marry! when you 've seen
130
To cut your eyes at them, that stirs them more
Than all your rustic glares.
Madge.
Come, mother, come.
Yon jackanapes is grinning like death's head,
With much the same expression; and his friend
Has great ado to keep him back. I fear
The coxcomb will be saucy.
Lady G.
Will he, rogue?—
Let him: I'll give him better than he sends.
Why, things have reached a pass, when pretty women
Are at the beck of every handsome dog
That strolls the streets! My husband, the Lord Mayor—
Madge.
Tell me the story as we pass along.
Yon bear will slip his keeper, if we stay.
Lady G.
So, then,—but how you hurry me away!
[Exit with Madge.]
(As they go off, enter Darkly.)
Ruf.
(Advancing.)
Darkly!
Darkly.
Forsooth.
Ruf.
“Forsooth!” Geneva-cloak!
You end of texts, and stupid homilies,
You all that 's bad in every Christian sect,
Do you “forsooth” me, sirrah, ha?
Dark.
Amen!
Ruf.
A fool! you sin-begotten tag-rag! What,
Are you pranked up, now, in your holy mood?
Come, saint, lay by your amaranthine crown,
And track those women.
Dark.
Ah!
131
You sigh! you'll groan
When you have gotten to the martyrdom,
I am preparing for your sainthood.
Dark.
O!
Trav.
Guy, if hard knocks can break a road to heaven,
You 're on the way. The man has honest scruples;
Do not outface his conscience.
Ruf.
Have you scruples?—
Have you a conscience?—Have you anything
That hints at honesty within your dirt?
I'll put him to the question. (Seizes Darkly.)
Answer me!
Dark.
The Lord forbid!
Trav.
Indeed!
Ruf.
Of course. Go, knave!
Dark.
Why should I follow the profane of earth,
The painted instruments of thy desire?
Ruf.
Because I order.
Dark.
Bear me witness, sir,
Here, in this world, and at the last account,
I sin by man's compulsion.
Trav.
Truly!
Dark.
Ah!
[Exit.]
Ruf.
A wretch like that would ornament the Shades,
And put the little devils to the blush,
Make Satan pine with envy, and upset
Chaos itself. I never saw his twin.
The club of Hercules could hardly drive
One hand to pen a love-song, while the other
Pilfered his lion-skin, with ohs and ahs
Enough to raise a whirlwind.
132
Trav.
Who is this?
What, Harry Goldstraw? Happily met again.
We were in Rome together—mind you, sir?—
That day the miracle would hardly work—
You know the virgin that did roll its eyes?—
Because the rain had rusted something, ha!
Much to the Church's scandal.
Goldstraw.
Ay; and you
To Fra Anselmo, a most bitter papist,
Did seriously offer to anoint
The clockwork with the chrism, and let the Pope
Go home ungreased. “Che, che?” he cried. “Because,
Fra,” you replied, “the Pope's eyes roll without it!”
Trav.
My friend, Lord Ruffler, Mr. Goldstraw. (They bow.)
Boys,
Let 's shake up London with a revel. How,
Goldstraw, you flinch?
Gold.
I have a reason, sir.
You saw two ladies pass—
Ruf.
I told you so:
Here is another hound upon the scent.
Look you, Will Travers, men are all the same;
You are the only Joseph upon earth.
So you were trailing them? O! never mind;
We will not quarrel; we'll divide them justly.
Take the old woman; give me the young thing:
I have a taste for unripe fruit.—
Gold.
My lord—
Ruf.
Well, you may wince, but so fate orders it.
A fairer piece of Eve I never saw
Than the young baggage. You 'd have laughed to see
The little creature stare at me.
133
A look
Full of pure modesty, and more designed
For me than you.
Ruf.
A most immodest leer.
Hear, the vain puppy, how he claims her glance!
Gold.
I pray you, listen—
Ruf.
As for your share,—phew!
Think what a bundle of fine clothes you'll have—
What pots of paint—how many different wigs—
What an array of teeth, all movable,
And warranted to baffle time's decay!
And then her cotton;—why, an Indiaman
Carries no greater cargo! Whalebone too!
A very female Jonah, all encased
In the sea-monster's ribs! And mark—
Gold.
My lord,
Know you of whom you speak?
Ruf.
Not I, in faith:
Some lady of the suburbs, I suppose,
Who 'd bargain for her girl. You frown? 'Ods blood!
Who is the woman, then?
Gold.
My aunt.
Ruf.
The devil!
Trav.
Shame on you, Guy! You 've given a sorry wound
To the best nature ever lodged in man.
See how a loose tongue, like an archer, blind
With the thick dust of battle, shoots its shafts,
With undiscerning aim, at foe or friend.
Down on your knees!
Ruf.
Your pardon. Here 's my hand;
Or, if you like it better, here 's my sword;
Both at your service.
134
By your leave, my lord,
I'll take the hand; it seems an honest one,
Though somewhat hasty.
Trav.
Spoken like brave men!
The sword should be a backward arbiter.
If human weakness can forgive a wrong,
Without blood spilled, let it be done; for so—
By just such steps of charity and love—
We climb to heaven.
Ruf.
Alas! I scarcely know
How to implore your confidence again.
You seem to bear a grief about with you,
That I, perhaps, might lighten.
Trav.
Harry, speak.
A truer mind, and a more slippery tongue,
A better heart, and a more idle head,
Were never bundled up in stranger sort
Than in Guy Ruffler.
Ruf.
When I go to service,
My master shall not get my character
From you, my boy.
Gold.
Alas! the character
You gave my aunt fills up my former grief.
That you, a stranger, by a casual glance,
Should come so near the thing she really is,
Gives me a sorrowful conclusion. She—
But I'll not talk. Come to her house with me;
Where, if you be true friends, you may behold
Things more for tears than laughter.
Trav.
Ah! I see.
Gold.
No, sir, you cannot see, with eyes like mine,
The open folly and the vanity
With which she stains my uncle's troubled grave,—
135
Whose fragrant memory sheds no balm on her,
Amid the train of fops and fashionists
That flutter round her gold, in buzzing swarms;
Slaves whose mere presence would disgust the sense
Of many a wanton. All these things have sprung,
Not from her heart, which, at the root, is good;
But by the culture of such poisoned sprouts
As grow upon the surface of our nature,—
Self-love and vanity. But come; I'll preach
More by example, if you feel inclined.
Trav.
Nay, Harry, quit these dumps. A woman's whims
Are all too light to bow so strong a soul.
Ruf.
I'll find a way to cure her malady.
I never saw a woman yet of stuff
I could not mould, as wax before a fire.
Some merry plot, half serious and half gay,
I'll plan. I undertake it, sir; and what
I undertake, I do.
Trav.
Go to! Here is
[Patting Ruffler.]
My Vanity, my Ego, my great Me:
Match any woman with him, if you can!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II.
A Reception-Room in Lady Goldstraw's House. Enter Madge.Madge.
When will my mother hold her years to be
Beyond man's courtship? O! it sickens me
To see her deck her ruins with bright flowers,—
136
While I, who, in the course of nature, am as fit
For flowers as Spring is, shut my roses up,
And pine beneath her. Child, forsooth! A child
Of twenty summers, who must know its bounds,
Its nursery, its book, its pretty toy;
Rise with the lark, and lie down with the lamb;—
Must I, indeed?—while she makes daybreak blush
To see her revels, and high noon amazed
To catch her sleeping. If I knew a man,
Of all her tribe, worth loving—Not so fast:
There 's cousin Hal, worth all the bearded race;
But what cares he? Would I were not his cousin!
Ah, well! Hal is so modest too: a fashion
That went out with the tilting-spears and shields.
Poor chivalry! they scorn you; but you died
Rather for lack of heroes, to renew
Your drooping laurels, than your own misdeeds.
If I were Hal—How he torments me!
(Enter Lady Goldstraw.)
Lady Goldstraw.
Child,
You must be jogging: your embroidery
Needs a few stitches, and your French has gone
The saints know where!
Madge.
The saints know little, madam
Of where the French go. If the French go—
Lady G.
Fie!
Your tongue is idler than your hands. Go, go;
Get to your book. I spoil you, silly child,
By my indulgence.
Madge.
Nay; I think you spoil
My mother more by your indulgence.
137
Mistress,
Would you be pert?
Madge.
Not if I could respect.
Pray hear me, mother.
Lady G.
To your room, I say!
I'll cool your blood upon a water diet,—
Impudent nursling!
Madge.
Madam!
Lady G.
To your room!
[Exit Madge.]
O! what a fume she put me in! I fear
My poor complexion has not stood the shock
Of this emotion. (Looks at a mirror.)
Yes; a fair escape!
No crack nor line, and not a hair awry.
Prior! (Enter Nick Prior.)
Who waits below?
Nick.
Why, Master Hopeful, mam.
Hope 's first to come, and last to go away.
Lady G.
No words! Admit him. Now, I wonder why
This whole house treats me with such disrespect?
[Aside.]
Go, sir! I'll get a master for you, sirrah,
To swinge you roundly.
Nick.
How the old girl shines!
She must have varnished down her paint to-day.
[Aside. Exit.]
Lady G.
Ho! here he comes. Lie still, my little heart!
Why wilt thou flutter, tender fool? Ah me!
[Sinks into a chair.]
(Enter Hopeful. Ruffler, Travers, and Goldstraw, enter behind, observing the scene.)
Hopeful.
Queen of my soul, sweet agony of bliss,
138
To see thy coming; though bright Phœbus knows
Thy light will shame him! Wherefore, wherefore, wherefore,
Cruel eye of beauty, didst thou keep thy slave
Sitting upon a hall-stool? Has thy heart
No sympathetic thrill to waste upon
Joints stiffened in thy service, rheumatisms
Beyond red flannel and mustard?
Lady G.
Faithless bard,
What, dost thou murmur at thy bondage, then?
I could well-nigh forbid your lips to press
The lilies of this hand.
[Extends her hand, which he kisses.]
Hope.
Nay, mistress mine,
My grief is closed within my placid heart,
As those fair lilies when they fold to rest
Upon thy snowy bed-quilt. Hear, O, hear!
[Takes out a paper.]
This sonnet to thy glory. Little, lady,
Compared with their sweet source, the verses seem;
As rivers which seem trifles to their springs—
Nay, I am out somehow. (Aside.)
But give thy ear
To this soft melody of Phœbus's.
[Reads.]
O! ever-to-be-remembered day and night!
O! never-to-be-forgotten ecstasy!
O! sun-god, with thy sky-born eyes, day-bright,
O'er-look the song-soul of thy votary!
O! teach his love-pen how to soothly write
Of the not-now-forgotten hour, when I
Poured out my love-words to the worthiest wight
That wends, heart-bound, beneath ceruleous sky!
139
Roll out a white-cloud scroll, without a flaw;
For sand, powder a storm-cloud up; and get
Venus to set her silvern taper, for
To light thy Poet; and one name he'll set
Across the sky, and it shall be—Goldstraw!
Lady G.
A sweet, sweet sonnet! much in Petrarch's way.
Yours is a pretty gift of poesy.
Hist! be discreet.
Hope.
I hear profane strong steps;
Much like a man with heavy boots might make.
Lo! rivals, madam! Lo! the slaves that tear
My heart out, and destroy my appetite!
(Enter Lord Foam, Sir John Pollen, and Marks.)
Lady G.
Fair welcome, gentlemen! You have missed much—
The poet's latest verse. Read it again.
Hope.
At thy command I would do much. But, no,
No common ear shall list to holy verse.
Yet if you will—
Marks.
Don't break yourself for us;
Keep something back to live on.
Foam.
La! they say
Your verse is stale before the ink gets dry.
Hope.
They wrong me foully!
Pollen.
(Aside to Hopeful.)
At him! In my day—
In Flanders, yonder—I have seen a throat
Cut for less insults. By the devil's blood!
I smell a coward.
140
Cut the miscreant's gorge,
Here, in this presence!
Pol.
Ay; and fling his head
Into her lap. When we were leaguers, bully,
Down there at Antwerp, an old Spanish Don
One morning sent his mistress, by the post,
The heads of all her twenty paramours,
Strung on a rope like onions.
Hope.
Horrible!
Brought they no tears into her woman's eyes?
Marks.
No, sir; she did not peel them.
Pol.
Look you, sir,
I am a soldier.
Marks.
Then, thank Heaven, I am not.
Foam.
La! fairly struck! Good boy, good boy! I kiss
Your worship's hand.
Pol.
Small shot and thunder! Turks,
I'll teach your tongues—
[Lady Goldstraw faints, supported by Hopeful.]
Hope.
Hold, ruffians! Look here,
And see your handiwork.
Pol.
'Ods bayonets!
Twitch her nose, Foam.
Hope.
Who twitches dies the death!
Foam.
A fan, a fan, la! Merchant, bring a fan!
Marks.
“A fan!” No; bring some water.
All.
(Running about.)
Water, water!
Lady G.
(Starting up.)
No; bring no water; I am not afire.
Marks.
Nor do you use fast colors for your cheeks,
Or water would not wake you.
[Aside.]
141
Blood and drums!
I beg for quarter.
Lady G.
Water me, forsooth!
Do I look withered?
Hope.
Spare, my gracious queen,
[Kneels.]
The wretch who kneels before you, and inclines
His lips unto your shoe-string!
Lady G.
For his sake,
I spare you all.
Marks.
Had I your guineas safe,
I 'd spare your sparing. [Aside.]
Foam.
La! how kind you are!
Hope.
A royal amnesty!
Lady G.
But leave me, sirs;
My nerves are shattered.
Hope.
Misery, misery!
Pol.
'Swounds!
This thing has fallen like a ten-pound shell
Among a company.
Hope.
O! pardon, pardon!
Lady G.
I pardon all. Go, I implore!
Foam.
Adieu!
[Exit, gayly.]
Marks.
'Sdeath! must I lose more interest?
[Aside. Exit.]
Pol.
Soul of me!
Where shall I dine to-day?
[Aside. Exit.]
Hope.
O! agony!
I did not read my sonnet to them. (Aside.)
Ha!
[Starting.]
One look, and then the pall of midnight falls!
[Exit, wildly.]
Lady G.
One cheek has cracked: I felt it giving way
142
Ha! there 's the handsome stranger of the street;
And come to court me, doubtless. Lack-a-day!
O! had those brutes cried anything but “water!”
[Exit.]
(Ruffler, Traverse, and Goldstraw, advance.)
Ruffler.
O! such a farce!
Traverse.
Such actors too! But, Hal,
Where is your cousin?
Goldstraw.
Prisoned by my aunt;
Kept out of sight. Blooming and withering
Show ill in company.
Ruf.
Such vanity
I 've heard of.—
Trav.
Practised.
Ruf.
How?
Trav.
Why, in yourself;
Is not all womankind in love with you?
Ruf.
That 's not my fault.
Trav.
Guy, you are sharp enough
For others' follies, stone-blind to your own.
Ruf.
Bah! hang your sermons! Goldstraw, I 've a plan
Working within me, but scarce formed as yet.
Let us to Travers' lodgings; where I'll lie
Till time has brought my struggling thought to light.
Trav.
Onward!—But, Hal, if widow, maid, or wife,
Should look upon us, as we pass along,
Pray you remember, all the sweetest looks
Belong by right to Ruffler; all the frowns
To us, by imposition. Forward, then!
[Exeunt.]
143
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Travers' Lodgings. Ruffler, Travers, and Goldstraw, discovered.Travers.
Your plot comes hardly, Ruffler.
Ruffler.
Not at all:
But, as you say, if the old lady's follies
Could reach the end they aim at, she would find
A keen repentance following her success.
She must be married; that 's the starting-point.
Goldstraw.
“Married!” Nay, that 's the ending-point, I fear.
For, in a furious outburst of her folly,
Or by the coming of some needy fellow,
Of handsome person and adroit designs,
She may be cozened to clap up a match,
Either with one who dangles in her train,
Or an adventurer who will spend her wealth,
Rob my poor cousin of her heritage,
And break both hearts together.
Trav.
A shrewd fear.
For, Guy, suppose yourself a ruined man;
How easy would it be to mend your rents
With Lady Goldstraw's patches!
Ruf.
True enough.
Trav.
'T is well all sharpers have not your address,
Or heaven protect rich widows!
144
Hum! Suppose
That I should marry her.
[Laughing.]
Trav.
He takes the bait.
[Aside.]
'Sdeath! what a life you 'd lead her! It would cure
Her amorous fancies till her dying day.
Lord! how she 'd shy, and try to throw you off,
And how you 'd cling and spur! I understand:
Married in jest, by Darkly, or some knave
With reverend face;—just for a day or so?
'T would work like poison. Ah! you cunning dog,
What nimble wits you have!
[Laughing.]
Gold.
Yes; how they skip,
When Travers pulls the wires! [Aside.]
Ruf.
Well, there 's my plan;
Born by due course of nature, as you see,
Without the aid of doctors.
Trav.
Brava, wife!
No; pshaw! you gull us. What, you will not dare
To carry out your artful project, man?
I doubt your courage. Hal, what think you, Hal?
Gold.
I would be loath to see her ladyship
The victim of a plot.
Trav.
Yet, after all,
Could it exceed the antics of to-day—
The lovers, and the sonnet, and the swoon?
And why not touch her feelings, and awake
The torpid heart that smothers in her follies,
And makes her monstrous? Ruffler's scheme is good—
Excellent, exquisite, without a flaw—
And easily practised.
Ruf.
Ay, simplicity,
That 's your true mark of genius!
145
I'll consider.
Ruf.
Nay, now, you shall consent. I will not have
The travail of my brain miscarry quite
Through stupid counsel. 'T is the only way;
And if you shrink, I'll offer no more plans.
Live on, and suffer by your obstinacy.
Gold.
What think you, Travers?
Trav.
Soberly, I think
The plot a sound one: and, besides, if he
Wring the old lady past her sufferance,
We can remit; for then the cure will be,
Beyond a doubt, accomplished.
Gold.
I consent.
But deal as a good surgeon; give no pain
Where pain is needless; cut the cancer out,
But spare the patient.
Ruf.
Mark me, gentlemen;
I'll have no interference; you must be
But instruments, not artists, in my work.
Prepare yourselves for orders.
Trav.
We'll obey.
[Ruffler struts up the stage.]
Gold.
Travers, I never saw such vanity—
Of all complexions, shapes, and shades—in man.
He takes your thoughts out of your very teeth,
Swallows, and casts them up, as carelessly
As though your brain were his.
Trav.
(Laughing.)
And so it is.
His weakness does not hide his nobler parts
From my respect. We'll hit upon some way
To cure both patients with one medicine.
146
Ruf.
(Seizing him.)
Where have you tarried? By the holy rood,
I feel like basting you!
Darkly.
Swear Christian oaths!
Do not afflict me with the filth of Rome—
The bells, the candles, or the holy rood—
The graven images, or painted saints—
The monks, or bulls, or other hornéd beasts—
The—
Trav.
Peace! you hypocrite, you sightless mole,
Who burrow in the dirt and lees of things,
Nor see the flowers that root in the decay
Of Roman greatness, to delight our time!
Peace, wretch! that ancient church held up a torch,
To light our fathers through the utter gloom
Of feudal ignorance! Learning lived in her;
Her cloisters saved the wondrous minds that made
Greece beautiful and Rome imperial.
What if she lag behind this rapid age?
Is she not old? and age claims man's respect.
What if the daylight show the torch's smoke?
Did it not serve us in the middle night,
And light us towards the morning? Rome, thou fool!
There 's not a church, from Luther to George Fox,
That on her broad foundations is not built!
Ruf.
You hurl a thunderbolt against a gnat.
Peace, father Will!
Trav.
You heard the villain prate.
I am no Papist, yet it angers me
To see that noble bulwark of our faith
Touched with irreverent hands.
147
Well, sirrah, well!
Where have you been?
Dark.
I tarried round the house
Of the gay gentile, near the offices,
Over against the backside of the court;
And there I saw her handmaids and her men
Bear the repast to its allotted place.
Ruf.
(Mimicking him.)
And, peradventure, thou didst enter in,
To fill thy inward man with broken meats.
Yea, and I marvel that thou didst not burst
Thy hide with stuffing. For, bethink thee, brother,
It falls on fast-day, when it is thy use
To cram thee grossly, just to scorn the church.
Dark.
Yea, verily.
Ruf.
Out, glutton!
Dark.
And it chanced,
A maid of comly mien, and smooth of skin—
Ruf.
How did you know the texture of her skin?
Dark.
In divers ways.
Ruf.
Ugh, losel!
Dark.
And I called,
And said unto the maid, in modest tongue—
Ruf.
With a most filthy leer.
Dark.
Whose habitation,
Or whose dwelling-place, dost thou abide in?
And she answered me, “The Lady Goldstraw's,
Widow to a mayor of mighty London;
A brave and portly dame, stricken in years,
But full of amorous blood.” And who the damsel?
I questioned; and she made reply, “Young Madge,
A child of twenty summers.” So I rose,
And came my way.
148
Unconscionable liar!
You have been nobbing in stale beer with her,
Eating cold pasties; and, for after cates,
You stole a brace of kisses. Come, put on
Your sanctimonious garb, and follow me.—
Are you prepared?
[To Travers and Goldstraw.]
Trav.
Yea, verily!
Gold.
In sooth!
Dark.
O, O, alas! how the profane ones scoff!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II.
An Ante-Room in Lady Goldstraw's house. Enter Travers and Madge.Travers.
So love died long ago?
Madge.
When Venus died,
With her three Graces, and the Golden Age
Came limping downward to these prosy days
Of gain and reason. If we marry now,
'T is this lord's park wedding that lady's field;
Or this man's money-bags and that dame's plate,
Joined at compounded interest; or John's arm
Mated to Polly's thrift. Or give the theme
A wider scope—throw wealth and sense aside—
And then 't is folly caught by beauty's glare;
Or base desire asking the church's seal,
To sin by charter; or sad loneliness
Seeking companionship; or simple malice
Seizing a helpless victim to torment,
While the law nods approval; or—or—or—
For any motive, good or bad, you please,
But not for love. Love has no motives, sir,
149
Love is its own reward.
Trav.
Indeed! then love
For nothing sighs—for nothing groans and weeps—
For nothing wrings his hands, and tears his hair;
Or with this nothing being enraged, for nothing
He fires a house, or cuts a rival's throat,
Or leads the Greeks into a ten years' war,
And tumbles blazing Ilium o'er her walls:
And all for nothing!
Madge.
Then was love a god;
Men demi-gods, who stalked through history
A head and shoulders taller than the world:
Ah! there were heroes then!
Trav.
And heroes now.
Are heroes proven by the knocks they take?—
Is blood the only livery of renown?
I knew a sickly artisan, a man
Whose only tie to life was one pale child,
His dead wife's gift. Yet, for that single tie,
He bore a life that would have blanched the face
Of arméd Hector; bore the hopeless toil,
That could but scrape together one day's food;
Bore the keen tortures of a shattered frame,
The sneer of pride, the arrogance of wealth;
All the dread curses of man's heritage,
Summed in one word of horror—poverty!—
Ay, bore them with a smile. And all the time,
His ears were full of whispers. In his hand,
The common tools of work turned from their use,
And hinted—death! The river crossed his path,
Sliding beneath the bridge, so lovingly,
And murmuring—death! Upon his very hearth
150
And talked with him of—death! A thousand ways
Lay open, for his misery to escape;
Yet there he stood, and labored for his child,
Till Heaven in pity took the twain together.—
He was a hero!
Madge.
Sir, you sadden me.
Trav.
Is man, then, so degenerate?
Madge.
On my faith,
You prove the thing worth something.
Trav.
Would that I
Could prove it in my person!
Madge.
Why?
Trav.
Fair Madge,
I'd have you love me.
Madge.
Horrors! what a man!
How many houses have you? How much land?
How many guineas? Are your cattle fat?
Could you afford a carriage? Sir, you see,
Having no father, I must look to this,
As you 'd be loved, in my own person. Come;
Set up your claim. What settlement, Sir William,
Can you make good upon my daughter?
Trav.
Sir,
I am a hero of the Golden Age,
Belated in your times. A love like mine
Is its own blessed reward. I nothing seek;
And, therefore, nothing will I give. My love
Is an abstraction, a divine idea,
That settles on your daughter, my good sir,
For want of better habitation.
Madge.
Pshaw!
You'll vex me, shortly: I abhor a quiz.
151
Why, so do I; and hating thus myself,
I leave myself, and cast my love on you.
Madge.
Which love is self-love, by your own confession.
Trav.
And being self-love, of the best quality
Find me, between the poles, such tenderness
As that men lavish on themselves; such sighs
As they can utter o'er their private griefs;
Such tears as their own miseries call forth;
Such perfect and complete oblivion
To all the world, for their own darling selves!
It would shame Hero o'er Leander's corpse,
To hear the anguish that a surgeon's knife
Can waken in his patient.
Madge.
Farewell, sir!
I'll hope to meet you in a graver mood.
Trav.
I shaped my mood by yours.—But one word more.
Suppose me grave; should I have credit, then?
You shake your head. Pray, when will you believe?
Madge.
When I believe in love.
[Exit.]
Trav.
I like thee, Madge:
Would I could love thee, as thou dost deserve;
But love!—O, fie! I'll swear I cannot love.
Yet I must feign it; drop philosophy,
And rave myself into a lunatic.
I like thee, though, beyond a shade of doubt;
And there 's a nature underlays thy mirth
That well approves the feeling. 'T is full time
I should set up a nursery, and prolong
The race of Travers; or my father's bones
Will rise against me. He who wills can win.
[Exit.]
152
Dolly.
My! what a handsome gentleman! How well
He 'd look, if he had Mr. Darkly's way
Of pious conversation! There 's a man
The devil fears, I warrant!
(Enter Darkly.)
Darkly.
Sister Flare,
How is it with thee, sister?
Dol.
Poorly, thank Heaven!
Dark.
O! weaker vessel, dost thou feel the need
Of faith, to steady thee?
Dol.
I fear I do.
Dark.
Um, um! faint soul, thou shalt not ask in vain
The arm of succor, (Embracing her.)
or the guiding hand.
[Taking her hand.]
And, peradventure, it might comfort thee
To taste a morsel of refreshing strength:
[Taking a bottle from his pocket.]
Albeit, the spirit is strong, the flesh is weak,
And cries for aid. (Gives the bottle. She drinks.)
Yea, verily! alas!
How much the poor soul needs! But go thy ways;
My strength is waning, even as thine doth wax.
[Takes the bottle from her.]
When thou dost falter by the way, look up!—
Even though this carnal vial cleave unto thee,
Defy the tempter, and look up, I say!
[Throws back his head, and drinks.]
Dol.
(Taking the bottle.)
I will, indeed. O! sir, you have not left
A drop to try my strength on.
153
Marvel not:
Sore was I tempted. Thou of little faith,
O! frail of purpose, canst thou not look up?
[She looks up, and he kisses her.]
Dol.
(Starting.)
O! O!
Dark.
Does thy strength fail? Look up, I say!
[She looks up, and he kisses her.]
Dost thou feel easier? Is the tempter laid?
Dol.
I could look up forever.
Dark.
Verily,
Thy faith is great, O, blessed sister Flare!
Perchance I may abide beneath this roof;
And if it happen, I will come to thee,
Even to thy chamber, to exhort with thee,
And wrestle with the tempter.
Dol.
Dear, good man!
I don't deserve it, sir, indeed I don't:
I feel so dismal-like, when you are nigh,
And I can see your blessed face. O! O!
I fear I am a sinner, sir!
[Weeps.]
Dark.
Look up!
[She looks up, he kisses her, and exit.]
(Enter Ruffler and Goldstraw.)
Ruffler.
Here I am, Harry, in my best array.
But where is Travers?
Goldstraw.
Somewhere hereabout:
He strayed off with my cousin. Dolly, girl,
What are you staring at?
Ruf.
A pretty maid!—
Hist, hist! I'll wake her.
[Steals up to kiss her.]
Dol.
(Striking him.)
Out, tempter, out!
Get thee behind me, Satan!
[Exit.]
154
Blood of mine!
What a she-devil!
[Rubbing his face.]
Gold.
What has come o'er her?
Ruf.
Plague on her handling! Now, I tell you, Hal,
That 's the first check I e'er received from woman.
She 's taken me for you.
Gold.
Without a doubt.
You 're welcome to the error.
Ruf.
Now, suppose
I open on the widow. I intend
To carry the whole matter through by storm.
Who are within?
Gold.
Fools: the same silly crowd.
You 'd better join them.
Ruf.
Mark me put them down,
Clear the whole field, and catch the widow up
Before she can draw breath.—
Gold.
Or hear a word
That sounds like reason.
Ruf.
Ay, ay! Forward, then!
Sound, trumpets! I am armed to win the day!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III.
A Room in the Same. Lady Goldstraw, Lord Foam, Sir John Pollen, Hopeful, and Marks, discovered.Hopeful.
Star of our lives, make an election now.
Behold thy four slaves suppliant at thy heels;
[They kneel.]
And all they beg, imperial dame of hearts,
Is that thou 'lt choose, among their number, one,
155
Would thou couldst honor all, and shame the Turk
By a reversal of his way of life;
Yet since vile law confines thee to but one,
Choose from among us here the worthiest;
And let the remnant of thy slaves depart,
Covering their misery with their handkerchiefs.
As for myself—
[They all start up.]
All.
Hold, Hopeful!
Pollen.
Honor, honor!
Marks.
We chose you spokesman, and not advocate.
You must not speak, or speak for all alike.
Foam.
La! yes; well put!
Lady Goldstraw.
How shall I choose aright,
Where no one seems unworthy? Marry, sirs,
A simple woman, immature in years—
Though wise beyond them—here may hesitate,
And hand upon the syllable of judgment.
I like the martial air of bold Sir John—
Pol.
'Sdeath! yes: at Antwerp—
Hope.
Peace! an angel blabs.
Lady G.
I like the manners of Lord Foam—
Foam.
La, now!
Lady G.
The thrift of Marks; the wild poetic soul
That throbs in Hopeful—
Hope.
Glory to my queen!
She chooses nicely.
Marks.
Cease your braying, ass,
Until she chooses.
Pol.
(To Hopeful.)
Breathe another word,
And I will scour my rapier in your soul!
Marks.
Let us cast lots.
156
Back, merchant! Slave, to thee!—
[To Pollen.]
What! dost thou scorn the poet? Flanders' knight,
He of the lyre is master of the blade;
Nor goes out, like a candle, at thy puff!
Lady G.
Beseech you, gentlemen!—
Hope.
Pray not for him:
His cause doth soil the ruby of thy lip
With present arsenic. On my angry sword
Grim horror sits, and murder is about!
Away!
[The others seize him.]
Pol.
I pray you, hold him; he is mad.
Lady G.
O gentlemen—good gentlemen—
Hope.
Mad for your bleeding!
Foam.
La! be quiet, do!
Marks.
Peace, or I'll trounce you!
Hope.
Dost thou second him,
Thou thing of measures, and plague-bearing rags?
Receive thy wages!
[Strikes Marks. All draw.]
Lady G.
Murder! murder! murder!
Pol.
Murder! I 'm slain!
Foam.
And I!
(Enter Ruffler and Goldstraw.)
Ruffler.
Keep the king's peace!
Hope.
(Rushing at Ruffler.)
Presuming toadstool, die!
[Goldstraw strikes up his sword.]
Goldstraw.
Stand back! you know me.
Hope.
But I regard you not.
Ruf.
Ha! dogs, you snarl,
You show your teeth, you bite, before a lady!
Lady G.
Marry! that they do, sir, and little else.
157
Are these your manners? This the high respect
A man should show before yon paragon
Of beauty, sweetness, and accomplished worth?
Now, as I live, my heart takes fire indeed
At the bare thought, and I would make you dance
To the harsh music of this rapier!—
Lady G.
No more—if you do love me.
Ruf.
Love you, sweet!
See, one soft word has saved you. Vanish, then!
I banish you her presence, one and all,
Until our wedding-day.
Hope.
Man, dost thou think
Thy clamor scares us?
Pol.
Poh, poh! soldiers, gull,
Afraid of words! In Flanders, 'sdeath! the French
Said ten words to our one.
Marks.
Ha, magpie, ha!
You 'd steal our lady's gold!
Foam.
La! yes, indeed.
Marks.
We'll clip you close enough.
(Enter Travers and Darkly.)
Ruf.
Here come allies.
Draw out your battle; for I have resolved
To drive you out, through yonder door, like thieves.
(Ruffler and his friends range themselves on one side; the suitors on the other.)
Travers.
What is this folly?
Marks.
It has just come in,
Along with you.
Lady G.
Entreat them to desist.
158
I must look dreadfully.
[Aside.]
Trav.
Nay, gentlemen—
Marks.
Pish! draw your sword, and sheath your tongue.
Hope.
Ay, slave,
If you be mortal, we will find it out!
Darkly.
(Coming between.)
Or, peradventure, if I might exhort—
Marks.
Out, scarecrow!
[Darkly retreats.]
Trav.
Taste your madness.
[Draws.]
Pol.
Hold, by Mars!
This looks like earnest. (Aside.)
I proclaim a truce.
Hope.
Base-born deserter!
Marks.
Coward!
Foam.
La! and I
Have no idea of getting my clothes spoiled.
[Crosses with Pollen to Ruffler's party.]
Pol.
Why, sirs, we often did it, down in Flanders,
To bury up the dead. A truce! a truce!
A soldier asks it. Or, if you will fight,
Throw down your arms, and beg for quarter.
Marks.
Hopeful,
We are out-matched.
Hope.
I care not, I! Come on!
The world shall witness how a bard goes off!
[Advances.]
Gold.
This mummery has gone far enough. (Coming between.)
Be still,
Mad poetaster; and you, master Marks,
Off to your counter, or I'll call the watch.
Trav.
A good idea.
Pol. and Foam.
Watch! watch!
159
We will submit
To Lady Goldstraw; but the best of you
Shall not dictate at the sword's point to us.
Hope.
Speak, magnet of my heart! thy slaves prepare
To do thy bidding.
Lady G.
Now, I really like
That stranger's counsel, for the stranger's sake.
[Aside.]
Begone! I banish you. Yet, not to kill
Your loving spirits, I'll mix sweet with sour,—
Return again upon my wedding-day.
Marks.
Keep up your spirits: I, for one, have hope
To be alive to see your funeral.
[Exit.]
Lady G.
Ungrateful brute!
Foam.
La! so do I.
[Exit.]
Lady G.
Mean fop!
Pol.
Good-morning to your paint! In faith, I 'd take
The same leave of your face, if 't were in sight.
[Exit.]
Lady G.
Ugh! slanderous warrior!
Hope.
Madness, madness, madness!
A thousand hissing vipers gnaw your soul,
The nightmare lie beside you, and may dreams—
Grimmer than gorgons, hydras, and the like—
Forever mind you of lost Thomas Hopeful!
This marvellous world to me is black as soot!
[Exit.]
Lady G.
Loving, but vicious!
Trav.
(Laughing.)
'T was a fearful scene!
[Apart to Goldstraw.]
160
But all a sham. You saw the cut-throats cool
When “watch” was cried.
Trav.
Yet Ruffler swaggered bravely.
Gold.
Dear aunt, excuse me. This fierce gentleman,
Who saved our lives, is Lord Guy Ruffler; famed
For gallant deeds done in the field of Mars,
And Cupid's, too.
[Introducing them.]
Lady G.
My service to your lordship.
Ruf.
Nay, nay; command me, madam.
Gold.
Aunt, my friend,
Sir William Travers.
Lady G.
(Apart to Goldstraw.)
Are they both at Court?
Gold.
Yes, both in office; and Lord Ruffler, aunt,
Is of great wealth, and greater expectation.
Lady G.
He seems to like me.
Gold.
Like you! Ah! I fear,
'T is more than liking.
Lady G.
Pshaw, you foolish boy!
Well, well, I cannot see, but so it is,
The men will fancy something in me still.
A lonely widow; only I have worn
Better than most, and youth yet lingers here
With some small show of charms.
Gold.
I never saw
Years touch one lighter; all the gayety
Of youth is yours, without youth's rudeness, madam.
Lady G.
O fie! you flatter.
Gold.
(Apart to Ruffler.)
I have smoothed your way:
Her heart is open now to all mankind.
161
Lord Ruffler.
[Goldstraw and Travers walk up the stage.]
Ruf.
Madam.
Lady G.
You are from the Court.
Ruf.
'T is true, my lady.
Lady G.
Are there many there
Of greater beauty than our city belles?
Ruf.
You jest.
Lady G.
How then?
Ruf.
I trust you know the worth
Of the transcendent beauty stored in you;
Your glass must brighten with it every day.
Those eyes, that flash upon me, are not blind,
Or heaven belies its light.
Lady G.
O dear! my lord,
You are so sudden! I could scarce expect
To hear such words at once. You frighten me.—
See how my hand is shaking.
Ruf.
(Taking her hand.)
Precious hand,
That trembles at my lips; then, at my lips,
Tremble forever.
[Kisses it.]
Lady G.
O, O, let me go!
'T is cruel to use your strength; and I so weak!
Ruf.
I love you madly!
Lady G.
Ah! you fib, you do—
You know you do—you naughty, naughty lord!
Ruf.
By those bright eyes I swear—and by that brow
Of Parian whiteness—and those curving lips
That match and rival the vermilion dye
Brought from Cathay—and by those cheeks that blush
The Persian rose to paleness—by this hand,
162
I swear—and hear me Venus and young Love—
To win a title that shall make it mine!
Lady G.
(Struggling.)
Indeed, my lord, I'll call for help, I will,
If you presume so. You are crushing me—
A poor weak woman—O, unhand me, O!
Gold.
(Advancing.)
What is the matter?
[As he advances, Ruffler releases her.]
Lady G.
Nothing, goose,—begone!
[Goldstraw retreats.]
I must retire a while, indeed I must.
Stay, if you will—I cannot help it—stay;
But don't expect to see me. Lack-a-day!
The fellow 's squeezed me out of shape, I know.
[Aside, arranging her dress.]
Ruf.
Shall I not hope?
Lady G.
Hope is the guest of all;
I cannot help it if you hope. Adieu!
Sweet ruffian!
[Aside. Exit.]
(Travers and Goldstraw advance.)
Ruf.
Talk of wooing girls, forsooth!
Hang me, if aught compares with wooing widows.
The hopeful ease, the careless certainty,—
Ah! that 's the thing to whet one's heart upon.
Gold.
She took it kindly?
Ruf.
“Kindly!” that 's no word.
But I am trammelled with another scrape.
Trav.
How 's that?
Ruf.
Why, look ye, as we came along,
We met the pretty Madge, and, as I live,
She gave me that same stare.
163
She spoke to me.
Ruf.
Ay, but she looked at me. And let me tell you—
For I know all about these woman's ways—
A look goes further with them in a day,
And means more too, than fifty thousand words.
Gold.
The boundless coxcomb! Madge, too!
[Aside.]
Trav.
(Laughing.)
Ha, ha! Guy,
Keep your belief; you'll need it by and by.
Ruf.
What do you mean?
Gold.
Pish! sirs; let us go in.
I have a cork to draw.—My cousin—'sdeath!—
[Aside.]
A jolly bottle of an ancient house,
Ice to the lips, but fire within the blood;
A liquid joy, that, in its native grape,
Basked a whole summer through in old Provence,
And rolled its pulpy fatness in the sun,
And caught the spirit of the Troubadour,
To kindle song amid our colder age!
Ruf.
Come, Travers, come, and crack the bottle. Ugh!
This ancient love-making is somewhat dusty.
I 'm dried up to a cinder with my flames.
Where is the wine, Hal? Quick, my throat 's afire!
[Exeunt.]
164
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Room in Lady Goldstraw's House. Enter Madge and Goldstraw.Goldstraw.
Madge, can you keep a secret?
Madge.
Hal, it seems
You cannot keep the one upon your lips.
Gold.
But it concerns you.
Madge.
Do I look concerned?
Gold.
Am I a fool, that you should answer thus?
Madge.
Am I town-crier, that you should fear to tell
This secret which will burst you, if you hold
A moment longer?
Gold.
Now, by Midas' ears,
I will not trust you!
Madge.
Well, well; I'm content.
Gold.
No, you are not.
Madge.
Indeed!
Gold.
You 're mad to hear.
Madge.
And you to tell. Ah! cousin Hal, you men
Call woman curious; but it would not be,
If you wise mortals did not, from our births,
Feed us on secrets. First, you tell your sins,
Then slander us for knowing them. Now, I
Have a great secret, that, when yours is out,
I'll give unasked.
165
A secret! pray, what is it?
That Lady Picture paints?—Miss Wiggins' hair
Grows on her French maid's head?—Miss Cripple's limp
Accounts for the high price of cork this year?—
That Mistress Flimsy's death was hastened on
By swallowing her set of brilliant teeth,
The day she heard Lord Faithless jilted her
For Lady Lucre? For poor Flimsy's maid
Told Lady Pop's, your cousin's maid, who told
Nick Prior, your mother's footman, who told Maud,
Your chambermaid, who told your seamstress, Blanche,
Who told your Dutch nurse, who unguardedly
Dropped it to Dolly Flare—et cetera.
Why, Madge, a secret, such as you would tell,
Has such a pedigree, before you reach
The thing itself, as an old Hebrew king:
I'd go to sleep before you came to it.
Madge.
Ho! ho! (Yawning.)
There is a shameful saying, Hal,
That fools and women talk with many words.
Now, you are not a woman—
Gold.
Then, a fool.
Madge.
A frank confession.
Gold.
Madge.—
Madge.
Hal?
Gold.
Madge.—
Madge.
Hal, again:
What would you?
Gold.
Of this secret?—
Madge.
What, of yours?
166
Well, then, of mine. Lord Guy, Travers, and I,
Have formed a plan to cure your mother's whims.—
Madge.
How, all? And she a woman!
Gold.
No; the whim
Of second marriage, with the ill it brings
To your repose.
Madge.
O, take no thought for me:
My secret will release you.
Gold.
'Sdeath! you wasp,
What is it?
Madge.
Finish yours.
Gold.
Thus far I will.
Make no real opposition to our plot;
Flatter Lord Ruffler, treat Sir William well;
And be instructed, as we go along,
Either by them or me. Will you consent?
Madge.
Is there no malice in it, no true grief,
Intended towards my mother? For, remember,
Were all her fancies multiplied by ten,
She is my mother still; nor do her ways—
Strange though they be, and open to rebuke—
Sever the bond between us.
Gold.
Madge, I swear,
A fortnight hence she'll thank us for her cure,
And vow the bitter medicine was sweet
Wherewith we drugged her. Have you faith in me?
Madge.
Some little, Hal. But work your own designs;
Bring me as seldom in them as you can;
I will not thwart you.
Gold.
And your secret, now?
Madge.
Am I of age to marry?
167
You? poh! poh!
A very child.
Madge.
And so my mother thinks.
Gold.
Why, then I'll swear—for she ne'er thought aright—
You 're old enought to be Methuselah's wife,
On his last birth-day! How old are you, Madge?
Madge.
Twenty.
Gold.
A fib!
Madge.
Too true!
[Sighs.]
Gold.
'Sdeath, and you sigh!
What 's twenty?
Madge.
'T is twice ten; but double that.
I have lived twenty years a lonely maid;
I might live twenty more; or die between,
Like a good purpose that neglects its time,
And dies for want of action. Tell me, Hal,
How do you like Sir William Travers?
Gold.
Well:
A noble fellow; all that 's good in man
Finds lodging with him.
Madge.
Lodges there, and sleeps?
Gold.
No, no; enacts a royal part, and fills
Its fair abode with splendor.
Madge.
Say you so?
Gold.
Of course; who could say less?
Madge.
I'm glad of it.
Gold.
And why?
Madge.
He has proposed to me.—
Gold.
He! he!
The man 's a fool—a stark, rank, raving fool!
168
Thank you, sweet sir! You 're pleased to flatter me.
A fool to wed me!
Gold.
Yes, a very fool:
There is a spice of folly in us all.
You are not suited for each other.—No;
Neither in rank, tastes, fortune, friends, nor aught
That makes a marriage proper. What, good goose,
Would you wed him?
Madge.
I thought of it.
Gold.
O, pah!
He is too wise for you—and knows it well;
He is most absolute and settled down
In his opinion of his intellect.
Why, Madge, he holds such mortals as ourselves
As little better than born naturals;—
Things to be driven, here and there, at will,
Like shuttlecocks.
Madge.
Then he 's too good for me?—
More flattery!
Gold.
Zounds! no; he 's not too good—
Who is?—but then—but then—damn it!—
Madge.
You swore!
Gold.
Now, Madge, I tell you—you are not quite mad—
If you intend to wed, choose some mere man,
A fellow like myself, perhaps; and love him—
Love him with your whole heart—because he needs it.
Don't take an intellect, a thought-machine,
To look up to, and worship. Zounds! I'm mad;
And you 're both fools!
[Walks about passionately.]
Madge.
Dear Harry, so I would;
169
But no mere man, like you, affords the chance.
I 'd love a man, like you, with all my heart,
If one, like you, like you would counsel me;
And teach, like you, this poor heart to confess
How it could love a man, like you, indeed.
Ah, me!
[Weeps.]
Gold.
What is the matter, Madge—sweet Madge?
[Takes her hand.]
Look up; you shall not wed this Travers, dear:
No one shall force you, dearest, dearest Madge;—
[Embraces her.]
By heaven, they shall not! my adored one, my—
[Sinks on his knee.]
By all the saints, I do believe I love her!
Madge.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
Gold.
Out, you witch!
[Starts up.]
Madge.
You really love me?
Gold.
Yes; the thing is out; I'll put the best face
That I can upon it.
Madge.
No; you half hate me.
Gold.
And if I do—
Madge.
No oaths. You love me too
Nearly enough to take compassion on me,
And marry me yourself?
Gold.
Indeed, I do.
Madge.
Yet you were rather late to find it out.
Gold.
True, true: but 't was a thing forever mine;
So much a part of me, I never thought
Upon it, as we do on outward things:
As one may have a leg, an arm, an eye,
And use it daily, without daily saying,
170
Is its true function, and just so it works.
Madge.
Too plain to see, too present to fear loss,
Till loss was threatened: I can understand.
But, Hal—
Gold.
Dear Madge.
Madge.
You spoke?
Gold.
No; you.
Madge.
Well, then—
Gold.
Why, true—
[Embraces, and is about to kiss her, as Darkly enters.]
Darkly.
(Groaning.)
O! O!—
Gold.
'Ods blood! Ha! Darkly, ha!
[Laughing.]
My cousin, sir—I say my cousin, sir—
My aunt's true daughter—by some accident,
Got something in her eye.
Dark.
I do perceive
The maid hath something in her eye, forsooth,
Even at this distance. And perchance her eyes—
Being thy cousin's—do lie round about,
Even in the girdle that confines her garb.
Gold.
(Jerking away his hand.)
Ha! ha! my hand?—O, yes—I put it there—
Only to steady her.
Dark.
Ah, me! I 've heard
The sufferer this wise must be steadiéd.
Hast thou removed the mote? O, neighbor Goldstraw,
First cast the beam out of thine own! A beam
Tempting to damsels, called by the profane
Men of Charles Stuart, the love-light—woe is me!
Gold.
You sanctimonious sharper, blab one word,
And I will flay you!
171
Ah! the wrath of love!
Some mouths are closed with promises, and some
Are sealed with gold, and other some—
[Goldstraw puts a purse into his hand.]
Gold.
Ha! shut?
What have you seen?
Dark.
Naught.
Gold.
Liar! did you not
See Harry Goldstraw kiss his cousin's cheek?
Dark.
Nay, verily.
Gold.
False slave, what know you, then?
Dark.
Naught that concerns them.
Gold.
Well said! Madge, I play
Lord Ruffler's part, his master. Mark me now;
I'll put him to the most extreme ordeal.
Patch-text, you canter, you—you hobbling knave,
There 's something in you, and I'll rip it out!
Speak, or I'll murder you!
Dark.
And shall I speak
The things that are of false Beelzebub?
Coin cunning lies, to please thee? O, alas!
Gold.
Talk, you psalm-singing villain—talk, I say—
Or you and life shall not get off together!
[Beats him.]
Dark.
O! O! my death draws on. Deliverance
Is opening to the martyr! O! O! O!
Gold.
I am quite blown. My faith is strengthened, brother,
By thy endurance. For each day you keep
My secret, I will give you half a pound;
If you betray me, a whole pounding waits,
To which this was but shadow.
172
Verily
Man cannot serve two masters. If I take
Thy golden lucre, I am bound to thee,
Even at thy chariot-wheel.
Gold.
Enough, begone!
Dark.
Master and damsel, peace be with you both!
[Exit.]
Madge.
Will he betray us?
Gold.
While the money lasts,
No fear. A soul more sordid never skulked in man.
Madge.
Hark, some one comes. Your friends.
Gold.
Fly, love! But, Madge,
Think of the plot. And, Madge—
Madge.
Quick, hurry, then.
Gold.
Remember me.
Madge.
I feared you meant to kiss me.
Gold.
Well feared!
[Attempts to kiss her, she slips past him.]
Madge.
Well gone!
[Exit.]
(Enter Ruffler and Travers.)
Ruffler.
See little Madge there, see!
She 's always dogging me.
Travers.
Poor dog!
Ruf.
'Sdeath! Hal,
Your aunt is all one glow. It puzzles me
To keep her in the bounds of prudence. I
Should be your uncle, without aid of priest,
If I allowed her ardor to have way.
The waiting-maid, who boxed my ears for yours,
Is gentler grown to-day, I warrant you.
I must say nothing; but you'll see, you'll see.—
Lord! what a pliant thing a woman is!
173
Poor Doll! You have not wronged her?
Ruf.
“Wronged her!” phew!
I pleased her well enough. Say nothing, Hal:
You'll cross my suit else. Here my widow comes.
Stand by, and see me woo her.
Gold.
(Apart to Travers.)
O! that man!
He has more antics than a tutored ape.
[Exit with Travers.]
(Enter Lady Goldstraw.)
Ruf.
My life!
Lady Goldstraw.
Heigh ho!
Ruf.
Star of my destiny,
Where have you hidden, while my moments ran
To dross and blackness? I have heavy news;
Doleful to you, perchance, and to poor me
Darker than cloudy midnight.
Lady G.
Marry, now!
Cheer up, my lord! hold up your lordly head!
Let me, my lord, like a bright star, essay
To struggle through your lordship's gloomy dumps.
Ruf.
She stole that speech from Hopeful. (Aside.)
Woe is me!
Ruin, destruction, horror, blood, and death,
Stare in my face, and beckon me away!
Yet you, you, author of my joy and grief,
Lull me to rest with dulcet melody!
Lady G.
The Lord 'a mercy! noble gentleman,
What irks your lordship, then?
Ruf.
My father, lady,
The proud and cruel Earl of fifty towns,
Some villages, and miles of fruitful land,
Hearing his heir in thy sweet thraldom lived,
174
John Rook, his butler,—with this dread command:
“Either give up your courtship of the fair
And much-respected Lady Goldstraw, son,
Or wed her instantly, upon the pain
Of my displeasure.” Now, I knowing well
Thy cruelty—for all beauties must be cruel—
Droop in my spirits, and prepare to die.
Lady G.
Poor soul! and will you die outright, indeed?
I am no crueller than the rest, my lord.
Ruf.
You find me choosing out my means of death.
Whether to throw me from some rocky height
Into a den of wolves; or watch my chance
For sharks and porpoises, to boldly plunge
Into their hungry maws; or by some drug;
Or by the ignominious cord; or,
Snatching at once the nearest means of death,
With this fell rapier—
[Offers to stab himself.]
Lady G.
O! O! help, help, help!
Think of the carpet—I will marry you—
My best new Turkey-carpet!
Ruf.
Angel, speak!
Has Turkey's loom embroidered life for me?
And wilt thou wed me?
Lady G.
Spare my modesty.
Ruf.
But when?
Lady G.
O, la!
Ruf.
Now, lady; or the stars
Shall say—we rose upon his bloody corpse!
[He coughs.]
175
Here is my chaplain,—a grim, worthy man,
Of dismal piety, and awful hopes.
Darkly.
O! O!
Ruf.
To him let us confide ourselves.
Then I in triumph, with the morrow's sun,
Will bear thee to my father's gorgeous halls;
Saying, “Great Earl, behold my beauteous bride!”
Lady G.
How prettily you talk, my lord! So you
One day will be an earl, and I—
Ruf.
A countess!
To show how small a thing a title is,
Laid on thy natural majesty.
(Enter Travers, Goldstraw, and Madge.)
Behold,
My plighted bride!
(Presenting Lady Goldstraw.)
Madge.
What, mother—
Lady G.
Silence, child!
Goldstraw.
You will not, aunt—
Lady G.
Will not! and why?
Madge.
O, shame!
Lady G.
Hush, or I'll wring your ears!
(Apart to Madge.)
Gold.
Pray hear me, madam.
Lady G.
Send welcome words, or none.
Travers.
And you, my lord,
Heir to an earldom, run your noble blood
Into a puddle!
Ruf.
Puddle her again,
And at the word you die!
Gold.
It shall not be:
O, aunt!—
176
O, mother!
[They lay hold on Lady Goldstraw.]
Trav.
Base, degenerate lord,
By Jove, you shall not! [Seizes Ruffler.]
Ruf.
And by Mars, I will!
Dark.
O! the blasphemers!
[Groans.]
Ruf.
(Breaking from Travers.)
What, am I betrayed—
Made over like a pawn—my love enslaved!
Come forth, my faithful steel, and show the world
How freedom brightens in thy awful glare!
[Draws.]
Scum of the earth; release my love and me,
Or I will pave a highway with your hearts,
Though you were giants leagued with amazons!
Off, Travers!—Follow, Darkly!—Stand aside!
My sword shall be my groomsman, and grim death
My only guest and witness; dying groans
Shall be my marriage-bells, and thou my bride!
[Seizes Lady Goldstraw, and exit with her, followed by Darkly.]
177
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A Boudoir in Lady Goldstraw's House. Enter Lady Goldstraw.Lady Goldstraw.
I don't half like it: money, money, money—
Nothing but money; and the ink scarce dry
Upon our marriage-contract. How is this?
But Lady Ruffler—I am Lady Ruffler—
Heir to an earldom, a peer's wife, in sooth.
“How does your ladyship?” a duchess cries:
“Ah! poorly, thank your grace,” I say; and then
Her loose-tongued highness has familiar jokes
About the ills of a new-wedded pair:
Says, “Ruffler should be pleased;” and pinches me—
Yes, faith, I feel her grace's fingers pinch—
The gay, bold, wicked duchess! Ah! dear me!
That covers much. And then my husband's love—
The brave, young, handsome fellow! Poor, poor soul,
He loves me dearly; and that covers more.
What are a thousand pounds or so?
(Enter Nick.)
Nick.
Your grace,
Your most imperious ladyship—
Lady G.
Fie! Nick,
You over-rank me, fie! Call me plain Lady—
Plain Lady Ruffler.
178
Well, plain Lady Ruffler—
Lady G.
Presuming knave! such words to rank like mine!
Have you no proper reverence, impudent!
For aristocracy, and birth, and titled names?
Have we not been the pillars of this land?
What would you do without us?
Nick.
I don't know.
We do all your work now, and I suppose,
Mayhap, we 'd do our own then. What would you,
Your royal highness, do without us, hey?
Who 'd dig for you, who 'd wait, who 'd till your land?—
Who 'd fight your battles, die in flocks for you,
And give you all the praise, and gold, and rank,
And stars and garters, and that sort of thing,
While we starve on forgotten? Please your grace,
I heard an old mechanic say all that,
Over a pot of porter.
Lady G.
How now, Nick?
What, will you murmur?
Nick.
No; you see I don't.
When we begin to murmur, then look out
For thrones, and crowns, and things! Your gouty lords
Will feel the people's broad, rough, hob-nailed shoes
Upon their toes.
Lady G.
Dear, dear! Nick Prior, I vow,
If you frequent that odious porter-house,
I'll turn you out of doors.
Nick.
Why, true enough,
A man might learn in better places, mam;
But we will learn it somewhere.
179
What brought you here?
Nick.
A flock of woodcocks. O, your ladyship,
There is a crowd of fellows at the door,
With bills as long as Lent, to see my lord.—
There is more aristocracy for you!
They make a noise too, and the people stop.
Lady G.
Admit them, then. (Exit Nick.)
I sent that Nick to school
For no good purpose. So, more bills to pay,
More money to be sunk! Has my lord nothing?
(Enter three Tradesmen.)
All the Tradesmen.
Please your ladyship—
Lady G.
Well, well!
First Tradesman.
Hush, I'll speak.
Please, mam, the others sent us up, to see
If we can get some money on our bills.
Here they are, mam. (Throws down a huge bundle of bills.)
Pay all alike, or none:
That 's our agreement.
Lady G.
Give me time to look.
First T.
For certain, madam; but we hope you'll take
A shorter time to look than we have had:
For, please you, madam—
Lady G.
You have said enough.
[Exeunt Tradesmen.]
“For furnishing Miss Polly Trifle's house,
[Reading.]
Five hundred pounds! Ditto for furnishing
Miss Flaunt's apartments, seven hundred pounds!”
Dear me! and all within six months—the monster!
[Takes up another bill.]
“One brocade tissue silk, for Miss”—
180
Ruffler.
Hey! slave,
You'll open doors, you will, and flood my house
With such another deluge of old bills,
To vex my lady, hey!
Servant.
Indeed, my lord—
Ruf.
Indeed your lord! and being such, I'll trounce you!
[Beats him. Servant cries.]
Silence your bellowing, calf! Do you not see
Your clamor grieves my lady? Stupid dolt!
She cannot bear to hear a human cry.
Ser.
Then spare your blows.
Ruf.
'T is not my blows disturb her,
But your most hideous yells. (Beats him.)
Peace, slave!
Lady G.
My lord—
O, dear!—my lord!
Ruf.
What say you, sweet?
Lady G.
Forbear;
'T was not his fault; Nick Prior let them in.
Ruf.
Hah! call Nick Prior. (To Servant.)
I'll make him twice a man:
I'll double all his bones, by breaking them.
Lady G.
Pray, pray, forgive him! I adopted Nick,
Sent him to school, and made a fool of him:
Besides, I ordered him to bring them up.
My lord, 't would break my heart.
Ruf.
Enough, my love.
Go, sirrah! you are innocent, it seems.
Receive those blows but as a specimen
Of what I can do, when my hand is in,
181
Well, my witch,
It seems you called these trading devils up;
I pray you, lay them.
Lady G.
What 's the gross amount?
Ruf.
Some thousands—ten—or twelve—or so.
Lady G.
Lord, Lord!
I cannot pay it; it would ruin me:
Let them take half.
Ruf.
And half dishonor me!
Is this affection? Is this woman's love?
Or have I married with a huckster?
Lady G.
La!
Well, call them in. But, O! my lord, the way,
The naughty way, in which you made these bills!
Ruf.
Naughty! my charities.
Lady G.
Five hundred pounds,
To stock a lady's house, for charity!
Ruf.
'Sdeath! yes: she 'd nothing to her back, poor thing,
When first I met her.
Lady G.
Like enough. My lord,
I'll pay this once;—but no more charities.
Ruf.
Ho, there!
(Reënter Tradesmen.)
Lady G.
(Writing.)
Here is an order on my banker.—
My money in the funds must melt for this.
[Aside.]
Make it go far.
[Gives a paper.]
Second Tradesman.
(To Ruffler.)
I'll send the velvet gowns.
Lady G.
What did you say?
182
My lord bespoke some gowns.
Lady G.
For whom?
Second T.
A lady.
Lady G.
Doubtless! When?
Second T.
To-day.
Lady G.
More charities!
Ruf.
Ay, faith! she 's hardly clothed;
There 's scarce a rag between her and the wind.
Lady G.
And so you get her velvet gowns, 'ods love!—
And on my wedding-day!
Ruf.
Tailor, look here.
Make me a pair of breeches.
Second T.
Yes, my lord.
[Goes to measure him.]
Ruf.
Ass, take that! (Cuffs him.)
They are not for me.
Second T.
For whom?
Ruf.
My lady, to be sure: and here 's the price.
[Throws a purse at him.]
She shall have breeches, if I have no gowns.
'Ods blood! she needs them. Can one ride the horse
She 's mounted on to-day, with decency,
In woman's gear?
Lady G.
O heaven!—O patience, heaven!
[Aside.]
Ruf.
One moment, gentle lady. Look you, tailor:
[To Second Tradesman.]
I want a taffeta body-cloth and hood,
Picked here and there with gold embroidery,
For Jennet, my gray mare. Upholsterer,
[To Third Tradesman.]
Provide me with a bed of eider down,
183
For Juno, my sick spaniel. Ay, and, tailor,
Make me six court-suits. See the stuff be rich.
Goldsmith, you'll match some jewels to the clothes;
[To First Tradesman.]
A casket for each suit. And—nay, you may go:
I have a thousand wants; but these are chief.
Ah! goldsmith, I forgot the rapiers;
A rapier for each suit; and in the hilt
Of each Toledo see you place a gem,
For which a gentleman may not be shamed.
And, tailor—
Lady G.
Nay, my lord, I'll have a robe—
Ruf.
A robe, the devil! Will you ruin me?
How shall I have my horse-clothes and my bed,
My jewels and my rapiers, and such things,
If I indulge your monstrous luxury?
Shame, shame! be modest.
Lady G.
Pray, whose money buys
Your trumpery, good sir?
Ruf.
Ours, to be sure.
Lady G.
“Ours!” my fine lord: are you beside yourself?
Am I to go worse covered than your horse?
Get me a taffeta body-cloth and hood,
To match your Jennet's; stand me in her stall;
Or let me lie beside your ailing dog.
'Ods mercy! if I must be ruined thus,
I claim a share, above your jade or cur,
In the destruction of my own estate!
Ruf.
La! now, my dear, sweet, gentle, loving wife,
Did I not know you far too well, I'd say
184
[Pats her cheek]
Lady G.
Keep off your hands!
Ruf.
Why, then, hang out a sign,
Like those we see upon the new-made doors,
“Beware the paint!”
Lady G.
Savage! insult your wife
Before the faces of these vulgar knaves!
Ruf.
Insult you, love! because I would preserve
The painful labor of your dressing-maid?
Am I a tasteless Vandal or a Hun,
To mar so delicate a work of art?
'Ods death! you wrong me grievously, sweet wife.
Lady G.
Why are you waiting, tradesmen? You are paid.
[Exeunt First and Third Tradesmen.]
And you, sir goose?
[To Second Tradesman.]
Second T.
To take your measure, madam.
Lady G.
Ay, for the robe.
Ruf.
No; for the breeches, wife.
Lady G.
Out of my house, insulting cur!
Ruf.
What, love,
Has he insulted you? Outrageous patch,
Here in her husband's presence! By the gods,
I'll make your bones ache for your sinful tongue!
Will you not stir? So then, take that, and that!
[Exit, beating him out.]
Lady G.
O! what a temper, what a tongue, what arms,
And what incessant use he makes of them!
Ha, marry! and the breeches, my fair lord;
I'll make you wish you never offered them.
I'll close your wasteful courses too, sweet sir;
Even if I put my whole estate in trust.—
185
Well, what 's the matter?
Madge.
My new father, mother!
Goldstraw.
And my new uncle, aunt!
Lady G.
But how is this?
Are these sad eyes the welcome that you give?
Gold.
Ah! aunt, your bride-bells should have tolled a knell;
Your friends, in crape, should have walked, two by two,
Behind the hearse that drew you to the church;
The priest, in black, have read the burial-rites;
And when 't was over, better far for you
If you had leaped into your grave alive!
Lady G.
To spoil your fancies, I was wed at home.
Poh, poh! you prate.
Gold.
Dear madam, have you heard?—
Lady G.
Of what?
Gold.
Of Ruffler?
Lady G.
Give his title, sir.
Gold.
Ay, when he gets it.
Lady G.
When he gets it!
Gold.
Yes,
Along with his estate.
Lady G.
You called him rich.
But that is nothing,—I 've enough for both.
Gold.
If he could cheat you, how might I escape?
Lady G.
Where are his father's lands?
Gold.
In chancery:
And his petition for the earldom, too,
Is laid upon the table of the Lords,
Session by session, with a general laugh.
Lady G.
A swindler, eh?
186
Worse, madam, worse, I fear:
A noted rake, a ruined gamester, aunt—
A common drunkard, a notorious cheat—
A murderous bully, thrice tried for his life,
But thrice he dodged the gallows.
Lady G.
Mercy! mercy!
I can't believe it.
Gold.
Heaven avert the time,
When you may be compelled!
Lady G.
(Taking his arm.)
Your arm, I pray.
Harry—O dear!—you see I 'm calm enough.
I do not tremble, do I? Has my cheek
Lost its accustomed color? Look, boy, look!
I bear me as a lady.—Saints above,
I shall go raving mad!
[Exit with Goldstraw.]
Madge.
I cannot laugh;
Yet I suppose I should. This may be wit;
Yet, to my poor dull brain, it seems like cruelty.
Hal has my word to keep the secret too:
Would I had pledged it to that Travers!—
(Enter Travers.)
Travers.
(Aside.)
Ha!
My name upon her lips! Fair Madge, you 're caught,
Caught in the very act.
Madge.
Of what, sir?
Trav.
Tut!
I heard my name.
Madge.
I grant: so may a rogue,
When he is called in court.
Trav.
How, angry, Madge?
Madge.
O! no, sir; pleased, pleased with your pretty tricks—
187
You three stout gentlemen have given yourselves
Over a poor old lady!
Trav.
Say the word,
And I will end it.
Madge.
No; 't is well perhaps,
Just punishment perhaps, if men have right
To take heaven's functions, and rebuff our sins;
Or seize the church's office, and patch up
Our moral rents—mere patchwork, though, for all.
Harry persuaded me; he may be right.—
I would I were a hundred leagues away!
I'll hide myself; for since our house became
A moral hospital, sin seems so rank—
In doctors, nurses, patients, and spectators—
That I could wish a plague were on us all,
To spot our skins, and let our hearts alone.
Trav.
'T is but a comedy.
Madge.
So you design;
But Heaven knows how 't will end. Man's comedies
Do often end in sobs, and tears, and blood.
[He takes her hand.]
Let go my hand, sir! Till your play be o'er,
The best among this feigning company
Shall not receive it.
[Exit.]
Trav.
She is worth a crown!
Would I could really lover her! But this love—
Pshaw! 't is a mere infirmity, a toy
Of painted candy, that tastes well enough
Until we swallow it; but, then, there is
No rest until we cast it up again.
Yet for all that, sweet Madge, I'll marry you.
Ah me! I wish I really were in love!
[Exit.]
188
SCENE II.
An Ante-Room in the Same. Servants cross the stage, carrying dishes, wine, &c. Enter Darkly and Dolly Flare.Darkly.
Lo! where the servants of iniquity
Bear carnal meats in to the revellers!
Dolly.
But, Mr. Darkly, hear me. I believe
You meant no harm to a poor orphan girl,
Yet, O! you 've done one, sir.
Dark.
Avoid thee, woman!
Why dost thou still pursue me with thy tongue,
And break upon my meditations thus?
I tell thee, as a servant of the truth,
I know not what thou mean'st.
Dol.
Then listen, sir.
You know the time you sought me, to exhort
And drive the tempter from me?—
Dark.
Truly, maid:
And it befell that, waxing strong in faith,
I was caught up in spirit, and abode
Above an hour entrancéd.
Dol.
And I, too,
I was caught up in spirit.
Dark.
Happy soul!
And when I woke, I found thee standing by,
Weeping and wailing at what thou didst call
Thy “loss of honor;” and it so befell,
The night being dark, thy honor being but small
We could not find it. Although I arose,
And lit a taper, and did search the room,
Even from the centre to the ends thereof.
189
It is not possible you do not know
My meaning, Mr. Darkly!
Dark.
As a lamb,
So am I innocent of thy intent.
Unless, perchance, thy so-called honor be
A bead, a trinket, or such vanity,
As maids delight in.
Dol.
Were you quite entranced?
Do you remember nothing?
Dark.
I was rapt
Above this sublunary sphere; the world
Fell from me like a garment; yea, the flesh
Was melted in the spirit, as a vessel
Cast in amid the burning.
Dol.
Then I'll speak
Right up and down.—
Dark.
Speak, but beware the wrath!
If thou dost stain my hearing with such talk
As enters in the organs of the vile,
Lo! I will curse thee with a cleaving curse!
I'll plunge thee quick into the fiery pit,
Where roaring devils broil, and hiss, and stew
On brimstone embers of eternal woe!—
Where groaning Satan stamps his cloven foot,
Lashes his barbéd tail, and howls their sins
Into the splitting ears—
Dol.
(Stopping her ears.)
O stop, sir, stop!
Indeed, I'll hold my tongue—indeed, I will.
Dark.
Thou hast been biding with unholy men.
That man of stripes, that pagan, who afflicts
The humble servant, hath deluded thee—
Yea, even Ruffler, whom men hail a lord.
Therefore, I say to thee, depart with him;
190
Among his handmaids. For, of verity,
That which man breaketh, let him also mend.
Go, I have laid commandment on thee, go!
And if he scorn thee, hie unto his wife,
And lay thy sorrows down before her feet:
So when she gives thee gold and silver coin,
Make thou return to me; and I will counsel
What pious use thy money may go to.
Dol.
Is that your best advice?
Dark.
Yea, verily.
(Enter a Servant, with a dish.)
Young serving-man, tarry a little while.
What dost thou bear? (Opens the dish.)
Strong meats. Ah me! ah me!
A beggar waiteth close beside the porch;
His need is greater than thy lord's. Go, thou,
And stand behind thy master, where he sits;
But make no mention of this silly dish.
[Takes the dish.]
And if he asks thee, answer, “By the way
I slipped and stumbled.” For I say to thee,
Much evil must be done, that good may come
[Trips up the Servant.]
Damsel, I will endure thy company.
[Exit with Dolly.]
Servant.
(Rising.)
Well, that must be a very pious man!
[Exit.]
191
SCENE III.
A Banqueting-Room in the Same. A table spread for a feast, at which are seated Ruffler, Travers, Goldstraw, Pollen, Foam, Hopeful, Marks, Lady Goldstraw, Madge, and other Ladies and Gentlemen. Servants in waiting.Travers.
(Apart to Ruffler.)
Go to it boldly, Ruffler. All these fellows
Have been instructed in their parts, and all
Have sworn to aid you; some inspired by fun,
And some by malice or revenge.
Ruffler.
But, Will,
You did not trust them with my plot?
Trav.
O no;
Their natural wickedness was spur enough.
They volunteered a thousand graceless things
More than I asked. Begin.
Ruf.
Sirrah, the woodcock!
First Servant.
Please you, my lord, I stumbled.
Ruf.
Stumbled, ha!—
Take that!
[Throws a bottle at him.]
Lady Goldstraw.
My lord is merry.
[To the company.]
First S.
O, my head!
Ruf.
Poor soul, he 's hurt! I'll heal you, Come, kneel down.
[Servant kneels.]
Travers, that sauce. Let me anoint his wound.
[Pours sauce over servant.]
First S.
O Lord! I 'm scalded!
Ruf.
Scalded! Quick, some wine—
'Ods blood! some wine! He'll die upon my hands.
[Gives a bottle of wine.]
Drink all, my boy; down with it, every drop;
Or I'll not answer for you.
[Servant drinks.]
192
Joyous heart!
The very life of company. O dear!
The man is surely mad. (Aside.)
Ha, ha! my lord,
[Laughing.]
You have a humor of your own.
Ruf.
How, wife,
Do I enact the good Samaritan,
To have you call it humor? Now, 'ods life!
I feel a virtuous anger at your scorn.
Madge.
I cannot bear this; it will break my heart!
[Aside. Exit.]
Lady G.
I meant no scorn.
Ruf.
'Sdeath! do you answer me?
Lady G.
I 'm dumb, my lord.
Ruf.
This Burgundy is sour:
Who brought it in?
Second and Third Servants.
We did, my lord.
Ruf.
Then drink it.
[Lady Goldstraw shakes her head at them.]
What, you refuse when I command?
[Starts up.]
Servants.
No, no!
We'll drink it.
[They drink.]
Ruf.
All!
Lady R.
You'll make them drunk, my lord.
Ruf.
The better, love; they will not see your state.
Lady G.
My state!
Ruf.
Ay, madam, your unseemly state.
It grieves me to call notice to a sight
Which all here have observed, too plainly, madam.
Pray, ladies, lead her to her room, and use
Your dearest care about her.
[The Ladies rise.]
Lady G.
(Starting up.)
Marry! queans,
193
You base, ungrateful ruffian, thus to lie—
Ay, never wince—to lie, to lie, to lie—
Over and over in your teeth—to lie
About a lady! The Lord Mayor, my husband—
Ruf.
Hang the Lord Mayor, your husband! Never cast
His old dry bones into my face again!
The devil has him.
Lady G.
And his widow too,
I fear. O gentlemen, if you be such,
How can your manhood brook, unmoved,
This villain's insults?
Goldstraw.
He 's my uncle, aunt.
Trav.
Your husband, madam.
Pollen.
Captain of your squad.
Foam.
La! yes.
Marks.
And guardian of your property.
Hopeful.
(Drunk.)
Ex-queen of my affection—
Lady G.
Silence, cowards!
I will not learn my duty from your lips,
Pale-hearted cravens!—
Servants.
(Drunk. Sing.)
The devil 's a gentleman, I contend—
Tra, ra, la, la! the bottle stands—
His horn 's his beginning, his tail 's his end,
And his—
Lady G.
Dare ye, dare ye, knaves,
Sing filthy rhymes before your mistress' face?
Out of the house—out, every one of you!
Ruf.
Budge, and I'll skin you!
Hope.
(Drunk.)
Scorn not poesy—hic!
194
Well said, my poet! Come, a song, a song!
We'll tame her temper with our harmony.
(Sings, passing the bottle.)
We'll tame her temper with our harmony.
Drag it round the table's bound,
By the glassy muzzle.
He who goes in ragged clothes
Has a mouth to guzzle.
By the glassy muzzle.
He who goes in ragged clothes
Has a mouth to guzzle.
All.
[Chorus.]
For Rhenish wine is fit for swine,
So is wine of Landes;
But the bowl to reach the soul
Is immortal brandy!
Ruf.
[Sings.]
Drink it down without a frown;
When we cannot tap it,
When the cup we can't get up,
We'll duck our heads and lap it.
All.
[Chorus.]
For Rhenish wine is fit for swine,
So is wine of Landes;
But the bowl to reach the soul
Is immortal brandy!
Ruf.
How like you that?
Lady G.
Come, ladies, if there 's left
One grain of self-respect among you all,
And leave these drunkards. Husband, ribald, brute!
Tear up my rooms, break all my furniture,
Murder my servants, set the house afire—
Do all the devilish pranks your drunken brain
Can stumble over; but, in Heaven's good name,
195
This beastly cloud of shame and infamy—
To torture me with your gross, odious life!
Die, gorged with your own baseness—die, and rot!
And I will bury you, and kiss your body,
Which, living, I abhor!
[Exit with Ladies.]
Ruf.
Indeed! Ho, ho!
[Laughing.]
All.
[Laughing, sing.]
For Rhenish wine is fit for swine,
So is wine of Landes;
But the bowl to reach the soul
Is immortal brandy!
[The curtain falls, amid roars of drunken laughter.]
196
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A Room in Lady Goldstraw's house. Enter Lady Goldstraw, sadly.Lady Goldstraw.
O sorrow, sorrow! Was there e'er a fool
Before my time—an old, blind, doting fool?
Off, painted face—off, curls—off, all that 's false!
[Rubbing her face, and tearing off her false hair.]
Henceforth I'll make my age my guardian:
He may respect a thing that 's reverend,
Even in me, who merit no respect.
Ah! silly vanity of womankind,
What an example may you see in me!
Who fought with nature, struggling to put off
The gentle touches of her slow decay,
Until she turned upon me, in her wrath,
And gave me all my wishes. A young lord
Who tears my peaceful mansion inside out;
Squanders my well-stored wealth on revellers,
Dogs, horses, wantons; and rewards my grief
With scorn, and mockery, and tempestuous rage
That aims too plainly at my hapless life;
But, missing that, torments me with cruel wounds,
Bleeding from all but mortal parts. Ah me!
Would I were in my grave! But, gentle Madge,
Left to the care of this wild dissolute,
What were thy portion? There I am pulled back,
And bound to life again. My child, my child!
197
And throws itself upon thee with a love
That will not be cast off except in death!
[Weeps.]
(Enter Ruffler, Travers, and Goldstraw.)
Ruffler.
What, in the water, drowning in your tears!
How 's this, old girl? Why, what an ancient look
You have to-day! Where has your color gone,
Your curls and gewgaws? Now, for all the world,
You seem like some old ruin that has stood
A thousand years, then tumbled all at once.
Lady G.
Scoff! I deserve it.
Travers.
(Apart to Ruffler and Goldstraw.)
Ha! the physic works.
Ruf.
Travers, what 's that? (Pointing to the false hair upon the floor.)
Has the wool come to life
Within the carpet?—Does it grow in curls?
[Turning it over with his sword.]
Lady G.
That is my hair.—
Ruf.
No! by the Lord, 't is mine:
It grows upon my carpet.
Lady G.
Jesting still!
The bloom you saw upon my withered cheeks
Was paint, the curls around my sunken brow
Were false, and there they lie, never to rise.
When I have dressed my age in proper guise,
You'll see more changes yet: A poor, old woman!
I shall be sixty-three the fourth of March.
Goldstraw.
Her age, by Jove!
[Apart to Ruffler and Travers.]
Ruf.
A woman tell her age!
Here 's a good symptom, Travers. Now tell me
I cannot manage women!
[Apart to him.]
198
So I do:
You are malignant to a lady's maid,
But harmless to her mistress.
Ruf.
Envy, envy!
There 's Madge.—But, pshaw! I'll not waste words on you.
(Enter Dolly Flare, weeping.)
Dolly.
O, mistress, mistress!—
Lady G.
Well, what is it, child?
Dol.
O, mam, your husband!—
Lady G.
There he stands, my girl:
He'll answer you.
Dol.
He cannot; he 's afraid
To look his victim in the face.
Lady G.
What, what?
Do I hear rightly? How is this, my lord?
Ruf.
'Sdeath! mind your private ways, mend your own sins,
And leave me to myself! What right have you
To interfere with me?
Lady G.
The right I claim
Is delegated from a higher power
Than earth affords—the right of every one
Who lifts a voice to aid the sufferer.
Ruf.
Fine talk, fine talk!
Lady G.
You turn aside, my lord.
Ruf.
To laugh.
Lady G.
You dare not look her in the eyes!
Ruf.
Here, Doll, come here, and let me stare at you.
[Takes her by the shoulders.]
By heaven! I think she'll blush into a blaze,
If I look longer. Dare not look at her!
199
[Kisses Dolly.]
And yet I never wronged her.
Dol.
Don't believe him!
Ruf.
Presuming hussy, do you say to me—
To me, remember, who can fathom you—
That I betrayed you?
Dol.
Yes, I do, indeed.
Ruf.
Lord love the women, they are worse than men!
Trav.
Why, Guy, you have confessed it!
Gold.
Yes, to us;
Ay, boasted of it.
Ruf.
Have you no regard
For a man's feelings? 'Sblood! there stands my wife.
You treacherous villains, do you counterplot?
Carry the war to Africa?
[Apart to Travers and Goldstraw.]
Lady G.
A shame
Upon your falsehood!
Ruf.
(To Dolly.)
Baggage, leave the house!
You plot against me, you connive with rogues.
Lady G.
Come with me, Dolly; I cannot do much,
But what I can I will. This last is worst:
I feared and hated the bold debauchee,
But now I brave you, and despise you, sir!
[Exit with Dolly.]
Ruf.
You rascals!
Trav.
Why?
Gold.
We only spoke the truth.
Ruf.
Well, well; but out of time. There 's Madge, too, Madge—
Another female trouble in my path.
200
As how?
Ruf.
The old complaint—love, love.
Trav.
(Laughing.)
Ha! ha!
I'll take her off your hands.
Ruf.
Take her, indeed!
What, you cold, bloodless lizard, take my Madge—
You who can rail at love a June-day through!
You icy reptile, if you had my blossom—
My delicate young bud, my fragrant Madge—
What would you do with her? Press her to death
Between the pages of some monstrous book,
As girls do flowers? Parch her with learning? Or,
With a vile course of your experiments,
To reach the mysteries of the human heart,
Pull her poor nature all to pieces, ha,
As country-maids do, leaf by leaf,
The flower they try their simple fortunes on?
What are you laughing at?
Trav.
At you.
Gold.
(Laughing.)
Ha! ha!
Ruf.
And you?
Gold.
At both of you.
Ruf.
A merry set.
But here comes Madge. Observe her, how she haunts me:
Yet I can't help it. Do you blame me, sirs?
If girls will fall in love, all I can do
Is to endure with my best modesty.
Trav.
Of course, of course!
[Laughing.]
Gold.
(Aside.)
Which is the greater fool,
Mere vanity or conscious excellence?
Here are two coxcombs, by two different ways,
Both meeting at one point, and both astray.
201
Withdraw, withdraw! I wish to treat myself
To a small dish of feminine affection.
Gold.
Heaven speed you, king of hearts!
Trav.
We take our leave
Of your imperial highness; yet our leave leaves you
In most amusing company—with yourself.
[Exit with Goldstraw, laughing.]
(Enter Madge.)
Madge.
Father.
Ruf.
My child. Nay, fear me not, approach.
What would you, daughter?
Madge.
A strange suit, good sir:
Divorce my mother.
Ruf.
If you'll take her place.
Madge.
How can I answer till your hand be free?
Ruf.
I bear my wife, your mother, no more love
Than a physician bears some desperate case
Given to his hands, who sees but the disease,
Not the poor wretch who suffers; upon that
I spend my skill.
Madge.
But now the patient mends.
You 've brought her to plain clothes, and simple talk,
Clean cheeks, true hair, and modest carriage.
I pray you, give her to my nursing hands,
And let me do my part.
Ruf.
She may relapse.
(Enter, behind, Lady Goldstraw.)
Madge.
I will go bail for that.
Ruf.
Offer your bail.
Madge.
My lips.
202
I take the bail.
[Offers to kiss her.]
Madge.
Nay, father, father,
You push paternal privilege too far.
Ruf.
Unnatural child, my heart weeps blood for you!
Give me the bail, and in another hour
She shall be free: if not—
Madge.
Well, if a kiss—
A formal, legal kiss—can set her free;
Here, take it.
[Offers her cheek.]
Ruf.
Now, don't flinch.
[As he goes to kiss her, Lady Goldstraw comes between, and he kisses her.]
Ugh! Heaven be praised,
I took you for the devil!
Lady Goldstraw.
Your close friend,
And therefore kissed me. Madge, my love, come, come.
Madge.
But, madam—
Ruf.
Ay, keep faith; the bail 's unpaid.
Madge.
Can I not kiss my father—only once?
Lady G.
Not if that kiss unclosed the doors of heaven,
And all the world could troop in after you.
O, villain, villain!
[Apart to Ruffler.]
Ruf.
Will you not agree?
Lady G.
“Agree!” you bold, base monster, who would stain
The only pure thing that is left to me!—
“Agree!”—I could say that—but, no, not now;
Not in the hearing of my child, whose ears
Would be polluted by the faintest hint
Of your most virtuous thought. Begone, begone!
203
By fouler projects than belong to earth.
Away! you are prepared in quality
For the most darksome corner of the pit.
Away! the gates will gape to let you through.
[Exit with Madge.]
Ruf.
What an infernal blast she blew at me!
I feel quite singed by her sulphureous breath;
And all because my daughter wants a kiss.
(Enter Travers, sorrowfully.)
Why, Will, what saddens you?
Travers.
The saddest news;
Matter to make your inky locks turn gray.
Ah! Ruffler, when you planned this merry jest,
I little thought, my friend, that you would be
Its chiefest victim.
Ruf.
Do not rack me, Will:
Speak out.
Trav.
Well, Darkly—Heaven preserve you Guy!—
Ruf.
Will Travers, by the blessed sun above,
I'll tear you into tatters, limb by limb,
If you torment me!
Trav.
Then, dear Guy, poor Guy,
Darkly has told to me, in confidence,
That he has taken orders as a priest,
And you are married, absolutely, Guy,
To Lady Goldstraw.
Ruf.
Married to that woman!—
That parchment skin-full of old rattling bones—
That relic of past ages—that old hag,
204
That—Hell! O, hell! You joke with me.
Trav.
Alas!
If I were only jesting!
Ruf.
Blast your wits!
Here 's your rare plot!
Trav.
Yours.
Ruf.
No; yours, I say!
You cut the whole thing out from first to last.
I would be whipped if such a bungling job
Called me its father. O, my luckless fate!
And you, you botcher, hope you to escape?
By heaven, I'll make you eat her, paint and all!
Trav.
Had I the stomach!—
Ruf.
'Sblood! it pleases you:
I see you laughing.—Laugh again, fair sir,
And you shall laugh your last!
Trav.
Poh! poh! you 're hot.
Ruf.
Go to the devil, and be cooked, I pray,
In all the dishes that the French cook veal—
You most egregious calf!
Trav.
Fair words, my friend!
Ruf.
Foul deeds, my foe!
Trav.
Well, then.
Ruf.
And nothing more?
Draw, goose! I'll fray your feathers—draw, thin-blood—
I'll bleed you sweetly!
[Draws and passes at Travers. Travers disarms him.]
Trav.
Have you reached your wits?
Ruf.
Pshaw! fencing-master, trickster! 't were a reach,
To get my wits through you.—O, horrible!
205
Nay, Guy, be patient.
Ruf.
Zounds! you talk to me!
There 's Lady Alice, in the country yonder—
Stuck down among the weeds and cabbages—
I almost love her, and she dotes on me.
If I were loose, I 'd run down to her place,
And marry her, by Satan!—just to get
A guardian for myself. O! fool, fool, fool!
Trav.
Prithee, be calm!
Ruf.
Prithee, be—There, again,
I came nigh swearing! See what you have done:
Ruined my hopes for life, perilled my soul,
And—O! if I were in some open plain,
Some empty place, where I might curse my fill
In peace and quiet! Where has Darkly gone?
Trav.
Fled from your wrath.
Ruf.
And were he shod with wings,
Plumed with the speed of restless Mercury,
Armed with Jove's thunder, Pallas' Gorgon shield,
Mars' spear, the horrid club of Hercules—
Trav.
The Parcæ's chattels, Vulcan's forge and limp,
Cybele's towers, the Titan's mountain load.—
Go on! If he were freighted with these pagan wares,
I swear you 'd find him: but with empty hands,
And lithe legs stirring with a new-born terror—
Like a shrewd thief who sees the officer,
Himself unseen—
Ruf.
Lord! what a tedious tongue!
Out on your “peradventures” and “becauses,”
And “ifs” and “buts”! You talk a deed to death,
Murder a purpose with philosophy,
206
As if it died by nature.
Trav.
Do forbear!
Your words are simply noises. I can make
A better meaning from the cluck, cluck, cluck,
Of a half-empty bottle of stale wine.
Ruf.
O, yes; I 've caught your plague: a single fool
Often infects a kingdom.
Trav.
Hark you, Guy:
I say you 're married—married to a wife—
Ruf.
And you respect her; or I'll make you, sir!
A husband's title is the only one
To warrant kicks, and cuffs, and hair-pullings,
And other matrimonial tendernesses.
'Sdeath! I intend to make the most of her:
I'll paint her up again, and frizz her curls,
And make her beautiful as a Spring sun,
That shines into the Winter ere you think,
Melting the crusted snow to violets,
And mottled crocuses, and golden grass.—
By Jove! you'll envy me.
Trav.
(Laughing.)
Ha! ha! more words.
Ruf.
Zounds! true. I cannot talk my grief away.
Where is this holy devil, Darkly, hidden?
I'll make him swear, before his mother's face,
That he 's no son of hers. Poor Alice too!
Trav.
The country-girl?
Ruf.
Yes: it will kill her.
Trav.
Ah!
What a kind heart you have!
Ruf.
And you, you churl,—
You trimming politician, scheming Machiavell,—
207
To gain an end!—Now, Will, I coolly tell you,
That if your crafty brain do not contrive
Some way for my escape, I'll murder you
In cold, black blood!—Take care!
Trav.
Take poison!
Ruf.
Pah!
[Exit.]
Trav.
His physic works too. Just one nauseous drop,
Of the same drug he feeds his patient on,
Has soured the doctor's nature to the core;
And brought his heart up, in a dreadful state,
All spotted through and through with Lady Alice!
How stubborn is this criminal, the heart,
That will not speak except upon the rack
Of strong affliction. Now for the last stroke.
(Enter Lady Goldstraw.)
Lady Goldstraw.
Sir William, pity me.
Trav.
I would do more.
Say how my feelings may be put to proof.
Lady G.
Remove my husband for a single day;
But give me time to say a prayer or two,
And make provision for my helpless child,
And I will slide into my timely grave
So quietly that, when you ask for me,
My friends shall give no answer.
Trav.
Say no more.
Ruffler is dearer than my life to me;
But weighed with you, how light a thing he seems!
You who not only bear a store of charms
That might make Juno pine upon her throne,
208
Before your fuller beauties—
Lady G.
O! sir, O!—
Trav.
Nay, hear me, lady. This alone outweighs
A world of Rufflers; but you wear a crown—
Unconsciously, and like a true-born queen—
That makes his life scarce worth the pleasant pain
Of taking it.
Lady G.
How dreadfully you talk!
Trav.
Your wit strikes deeply—you have guessed my secret—
I see it in your eyes. Heaven's meaning glows
Through their deep azure, and their fringéd lids
Are heavy with the tears of ecstasy.
[Takes her hand.]
If I interpret these celestial signs,
With half the cunning of astrologers,
You love me.—Nay, the word is on your lips.
As well might thunder burst upon the world,
From the warm splendor of a sunny sky,
As dread denial from that rosy mouth!
Lady G.
O me! O me! A fragile woman, sir,
In plain, cheap clothes.
Trav.
What covers you is dear,
And gains a sanctity from every touch
That makes it radiant.
Lady G.
Can this be, indeed?
Trav.
It is, I say! Ah! promise me one smile,
One look of cheer, one glance, and Ruffler—Nay,
I'll not profane your senses with his name.
I know a way to free you. I require
No wages for my service. The mere act
That brings content to you repays itself.
Lady G.
Can it be done with safety?
209
Ay; but who
Sums up the venture for a prize like this?
Adieu! time calls for action. Sweet, adieu!
A clear relapse, by Jove!
[Aside. Exit.]
Lady G.
Sir William, stay!
I call that love, real love. But how can he
Shuffle by Ruffler; as if husbands grew,
Like o'er-ripe fruit to us, and only needed
A little shaking to fall off? I fear
The law binds tighter than Sir William thinks.
Yet wits like his are full of happy schemes.
[Looks into a mirror.]
Dear me! I have disfigured this poor shape
By my absurd ideas. These homely robes
I wore as penance for my marriage-rites,
These cheeks were washed with penitential tears,
These locks were shorn with penitential hands:
Art shall repair my folly. Love me now!
How will he love me when I come to him
In all my former glory! Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
Another heart! Who has the impudence
To call me old or faded? Madge, you child,
Get to your books again: leave the field clear
For my triumphant progress! Open doors!
Let my state-chambers brighten up again!
Call in the barbers, milliners, and knaves,
That deck our person for the envious world!
'Ods love! we'll queen it, while our crown is on!
[Exit, proudly.]
210
SCENE II.
(A Drawing-Room in the Same. Enter Ruffler, Travers, Goldstraw, and Madge.)Ruffler.
I'm sick of it.
Madge.
And I.
Travers.
I tell you both,
Your wife, sir, and your mother, gentle lady,
Has not withstood the test.
Madge.
Nor ever will.
'T is in her nature, sir; to weed it out,
Were to pull up her being by the roots.
I grant that 't is a hurtful growth; yet it
Has twined itself through many better things,
Which are apparent to a daughter's eyes,
Though lost on you. Let us endure the ill
For the good's sake. I love her; that implies
I love her as she is, not as you 'd make her;
Nor can I now foretell if any change,
Even for the better, might not change my love.
What think you, Hal?
Goldstraw.
That you 're the best of daughters,
But not, in that respect, the best of friends.
Sir William 's purpose seeks your mother's good,
And only indirectly aims at you.
Madge.
Well, well!
Ruf.
Pray you, consider me, good sirs.
Am I a thing to push about at will?
In faith, you'll find me somewhat bulky when
You come to move me.
Trav.
But I promised you—
211
Alive or dead. And more—
Ruf.
That is enough:
Let me but hack his carcass into reliques,
And I will do the world some service yet.
I'm ready for my part.
Trav.
So are the rest.
[Leads Madge apart.]
I'll claim your pledge anon.
Madge.
My pledge!
Trav.
The hand,
The hand, fair lady, when the play is o'er.
Madge.
How many poets have been tricked of that!
[Aside.]
Gold.
Your whispers are too loud for secrecy,
Though quite too low for satisfaction, Madge.
If you 'd be private with Sir William Travers,
Withdraw; I'll hold the door, to let you pass.
Madge.
Why, Hal!—
[Taking him apart.]
Gold.
Why, Madge!
Madge.
What, jealous of my words!
Gold.
If they were worthless—
Madge.
There! that pretty thing
Will do unspoken. I foresee a time,
A very dreary time, for little Madge.
Gold.
Or very merry, if she'll stand a while
Out of this artificial, hot-bed world,
To let that spice of coquetry dry up:
A very pretty flower, to deck a maid;
A thorny stalk within a marriage-bed.
Trav.
Come, Ruffler.
Ruf.
Ay, ay, Will; 't is come, good dog—
And go, good dog—and—O! you heartless wretch,
212
Poor Lady Alice!
[Exit with Travers.]
Gold.
Narrowly escaped.
Here comes your mother, in full tire again,
Blooming with paint, and odorous as the East
With borrowed perfumes. All her curls have grown,
Within an hour, beneath Sir William's breath;
And what she lacks in youth, she gains in art—
A sorry patchwork!
Madge.
A sad spectacle!
Gold.
Her shroud would more become her.
Madge.
Hal!
Gold.
Forgive me.
Your father's grave rose in my memory,
And seemed to claim a partner.
(Enter Lady Goldstraw.)
Lady Goldstraw.
You here, child!
Get to your studies; make yourself more fit
For male companionship, before you thrust
Your greenness forward.
Madge.
Madam!—
Gold.
Madge!—Aunt, aunt,
Pray keep your honey-moon without eclipse.
Lady G.
My honey-moon! You saw—why should I blush?—
[Aside.]
You saw Sir William Travers pass this way?
Gold.
An hour ago, with your good husband, aunt;—
In high words too.
Lady G.
I like not that. (Aside.)
High words?—
Such as—
213
“Base fool!” And “By your leave, you lie!”
And “If you dare be brave, slave!”—
Lady G.
That will do.
O dear! my heart misgives me. Did he mean
To kill my husband? Risk his precious life
Against a drunken brawler! (Aside.)
Harry, run:
They'll come to mischief.
Gold.
Never fear.
Lady G.
Run, run!
Procure an officer.—You stony fool,
Why stand you gaping, when their blood may flow
Even while you stare at me?
(Enter Hopeful, Foam, Pollen, and Marks.)
Who let you in?
Hopeful.
Fallen idol, he who oped the wooden doors
Of our lost Paradise was Nick, thy man.
Marks.
We would congratulate you.
Foam.
La! yes, madam;
We kiss your hand.
Pollen.
I bow my colors down.
Lady G.
You stand there still?
[Apart to Goldstraw.]
Gold.
In wonder.
Lady G.
At these fools?
What brought you here?—what keeps you here?—And why,
In Heaven's sweet name, do you not quit my sight?
I'm on the rack, yet dare not groan!
[Aside.]
Marks.
Your speech,
Hopeful, your speech!
Hope.
Renowned enchantress, list!
We who upon your fateful wedding-day
214
Seeing that wreath has changed to stinging thistles,
Thought it might not be an ungracious act,
To come and gratulate your ladyship
Upon your husband's death. Since that alone—
Lady G.
Has he run mad, at last?
Hope.
Mad!
Marks.
Sober truth:
We saw the body.
Hope.
With more fatal stabs
Than Cæsar gathered in the Capitol.
Pol.
Why, once in Flanders—
Lady G.
Silence! I shall die
Before I understand you. Master Marks—
Marks.
Your husband 's dead: there 's the blunt truth for you.
Lady G.
O, Heaven!—I—Harry—How did he die?
Pol.
Why, like a soldier!
Lady G.
Mercy!
Marks.
Stabbed to death.
Lady G.
By whom?—Quick!
Marks.
No one knows.
Lady G.
Thank Heaven!
[Aside.]
(Enter Travers, his hands bloody.)
You here!—
What 's this—this stain upon your hands? Speak! speak!
You did not kill him?
Trav.
He is yours no more.
Ask me no questions.
[Takes her hand. She shrinks away.]
Lady G.
Murderer!
215
How?
Trav.
Look there!
(Enter Ruffler, as a ghost, pointing to a wound on his breast.)
Is it a phantom of my feverish brain?
Or—
Lady G.
Terrible!
Trav.
You see it, too!
All.
See what?
Trav.
Thou gory horror, wherefore art thou here?
I say, I slew thee, in fair, open fight!
Monsters like thee should track the murderer,
Not the true man!
Gold.
Poor gentleman! the loss
Of his old friend has quite bewildered him.
Lady G.
Kind Heaven, destroy my sight! Let me not look
Upon this thing, and live!
Gold.
Aunt, are you crazed?
Here 's nothing but a chair—a table here.
Ay, that 's the portrait of your former husband:
He looks upon you sorrowfully, I grant;
But so he must have looked throughout his life.
[Holds Madge back]
[Ruffler advances towards Lady Goldstraw.]
Lady G.
Keep it away!—Stand off!—I had no hand—
Mine are not bloody—in this butchery!
Look at my hand—O, horror! blood here, too!
Ha! ha! we three wear one foul livery!
Ha! ha! how like you scarlet, gentlemen,
For a lord's lady?
[Bursts into a laugh, and faints, supported by Goldstraw.]
Madge.
(Rushing forward.)
Mother!—
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Give her air.
Ruffler, go wash your ghostly colors off.
[Exit Ruffler.]
Fear nothing, lady: 't is the crisis, now;
That past, all will be well.
Madge.
Ah! my poor mother!—
Inhuman men!—Hal Goldstraw, you as well—
You could consent to this!
Trav.
Hist! she awakes.
Gold.
Dear aunt!
Trav.
How feel you, madam?
Lady G.
Has it gone?
Gold.
What has been here?
Lady G.
My—my—
Trav.
You pause.
Lady G.
You here!
Dare you to question me?
Trav.
Why not, my lady?
Lady G.
Where is my husband?
Gold.
Madam, you should know
How long the good Lord Mayor has been entombed.
Lady G.
Sirs, would you mock me? Am I not a bride?
Was I not married yesterday?
Gold.
Dear aunt,
Your thoughts are wandering. You have been a widow
Some fifteen years or more.
Lady G.
Did I not wed
A loose, low ruffian, by the name of Ruffler?
Was he not killed? And am I not—O, heaven!
[Covers her face.]
Trav.
He will feel flattered at the character
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And is within your house. A sober man,
I can assure you; and no more your husband
Than your fair daughter, there.
Lady G.
Strange! Madge, come here.
You have been weeping. Dry your pretty eyes.
It has been all a dream—but such a dream!
I have been ill and feverish.—All a dream!
Trav.
O, yes; there was a German who believed
Dream-life the true one, and our actual state
A mere illusion: in that faith he died.
Lady G.
I 've heard of such things. It was wonderful!
I have had other waking fancies, too;
But they are over now. Those gentlemen,
Companions of my folly, if they stay,
Must not suggest my weakness: it has past.
Hopeful.
Queen of my heart!—
Lady G.
(Laughing.)
That is sufficient, sir.
I abdicate in favor of my child.
The crown of hearts will hardly slide across
My many wrinkles: here 's a smoother brow,
More worth the dignity of general love,
And thus I bless it.
All.
Long live Madge, our queen!
(Enter Ruffler, dragging in Darkly, and followed by Dolly Flare.)
Ruffler.
Howl, villain, howl! Your agony delights me;
And you, she-devil, add your cries to his;
A merrier concert never struck my ear.
Now, here, upon your knees, before us all,
Confess your lies. Say, are you under orders?
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Under your orders, as the hireling lies
Beneath the master's.
Ruf.
But you lie without them,
Much to my sorrow. Am I married?—Speak!
Dark.
No, no!
Ruf.
You never saw me wed?
Dark.
No, no!
Ruf.
You were not present? You were in the moon,
The sun, in heaven, in—
Dark.
No! O! let me say
One great concluding no, and end this choking.
Ruf.
Now, for your penance, I consign you over
To Dolly Flare, forever.
Dark.
But my faith
Forbids vain penance. I am under vows
Never to mate with woman.
Ruf.
Under vows,
You deadly papist! and not wed a woman!
I'll join you to an ape, then.
Dark.
Must I take
Thy Jezebel, thy minion, thy cast ware?
Nay, throw her from the window to the dogs!
Ruf.
That might improve her fate.
Dark.
(To Dolly, who approaches him.)
Avaunt, thou witch!
Child of iniquity, thy touch defiles me!
Dolly.
Not more than yours has me.
Dark.
Speak, and I'll curse thee.
Dol.
Curse away, then: I care not for your curse.
My lord, forgive me: I have lied of you,
For that man 's sake.
Ruf.
Ho! ho! the fox is up!
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Here, take her hand. (Joins their hands.)
I join you two in one,
And throw you, thus, across the nuptial line,
As boys do cats.—There, scratch yourselves to death!
Dark.
O! O! the heathen rages! Wife of mine,
Let us remove our habitation hence.
I am inclined to cleave to thee—
[Stealing off.]
Ruf.
Hold, there!
You shall not stir until I see you wed.
Hey! Reynard, would you dodge?
Dark.
O! O!
[Retires with Dolly.]
Ruf.
And you,
My quondam wife, are you inclined to try
A serious union with a young gallant?
Here 's Travers, heart-free.
Trav.
Whew!
Lady G.
Excuse me, sir,
Your friend has been explaining all to me.
The process of your jest was somewhat harsh,
Yet I confess 't was healthful; and, though built
Upon a fiction, that may move my mirth,
I see no reason why the same events,
If true, might not have drained my silly eyes
Of their last tear.
Ruf.
Travers is scorned, then?
Lady G.
No;
Not scorned, but not accepted.
Trav.
Cheer up, Guy;
There 's something left me. Lady, by your leave,
The play is over, shall I gain the hand?
[Offers to take Madge's hand.]
220
(Interposing.)
Sir, by your leave, I urge a prior claim.
[Takes her hand.]
Ruf.
Ho! ho! Will Travers, we are gulled, I think;
[Laughing.]
Apollo 's tumbled from his pedestal!
Nay, hark you, now, superior intellect,
You look less like Minerva than her owl!
O! this is too good! Some one hug me tight,
Or I shall split with laughter! Travers gulled
By two mere mortals!
Trav.
'Sdeath! you monstrous dunce!
Ruf.
(Apart to Travers.)
I am beginning to reform my faith:
I thought Madge Goldstraw loved me. Seriously,
I fear all women do not love us, Will.
Trav.
You should respect them—if you know yourself—
For that one fact.
Ruf.
But Lady Alice!
Trav.
Poh!
Guy, Guy, the truth will out: I really love,
With all my heart, I really love sweet Madge.
I scoffed at love, once—
Ruf.
Bravo! baby Cupid,
This is thy vengeance! Travers, are you paid?
Trav.
Beyond my sin: The gods do naught by halves.
Where goes the hand?
[To Madge.]
Madge.
Where the heart went before.
Gold.
A gentle herald! Do not envy me
The dearest blessing that has crossed my path.
You have a happiness within yourself,
A soul made fruitful by a teeming mind;
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Your sanction, madam.
Lady G.
Take it. 'T is a match
Your uncle planned, and smiles upon, I know:
The sod lies lighter on his grave for this.
Trav.
Come, Guy, I want some country air. I'll plant
Myself among your weeds and cabbages,
Poultry, and pigs, and Lady Alices.
Ruf.
'Sdeath! mend your phrases.
Lady G.
Gentlemen, no jars.
You, who have made my marriage-day so bright
With heart-felt blessings, must not bring the night
Ere I enjoy the sunshine. I would see
The bowl pass round among this company.
Will goodness not become me—make me fair?—
Ruf.
There 's the old sin, in a new shape—beware!
Lady G.
True; I'll be cautious. You have had a day
Of harmless merriment; thank Heaven, I pray,
For the enjoyment; and preserve your wine
Safe from the bitter taint of tearful brine,
Till you can pledge me in my altered carriage:—
What shall the toast be, sirs?
All.
The Widow's Marriage!
| Plays and Poems | |