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What now, Mr. Dignity? will you play off your royal airs upon me? Though you live in a palace, I know you. Come, answer me three plain questions; and quickly, I'm in haste. Has the Prince quarrelled with his father?—is Count Roger banished?—has Princess Matilda gone into a convent?

Con.

Princess Matilda gone into a convent!

Barb.

That you don't know; the rest you do.

Con.

I did not say that.

Barb.

No; but I say it.

Con.

Well, if the count is banished, I'm glad of it.

Barb.

I thought you would be.

Con.

Why so?

Barb.

Because you are one of those luckless men born with your heart on the right side instead of the left; so that it is glad and sorry in the wrong place. Give this paper to the prince.

Con.

What's in it?

Barb.

What's that to you? Are you inspector of petitions? 'Tis from my mistress, the lady Rosalie.

Con.

Papers often get those that handle them into trouble.

Barb.

I will ask you one question—

Con.

Mrs. Barbara, you ask too many questions. That is not the manners of us in the palace.

Barb.

No; the tongues of you in the palace move not to deliver outwardly words and thoughts; but to deliver inwardly meats and drinks. Conrado, do you hope to outlive the King?

Con.

The King is a score of years my elder, so there is no treason in thinking that I may.

Barb.

But it were treason to yourself to forfeit the good will of a king.

Con.

That it would be, and therefore—

Barb.

And therefore deliver this to the prince, who is prince now only to be king hereafter. Will you not learn, Conrado, that for us poor servants our best friends are the young. The young are generous: besides, they never forget a love-service. He who does it is laid away in their memories between two kisses, and that keeps him warm in their

regard for over.—But this time I shall not be beholden to you for helping me. Here is the prince himself. Enter Tancred.
May it please you, sir, I have a petition to your highness.

Tanc.

Good woman, I am in the mood to grant petitions, being myself most wretched. What a man-tamer is grief! Your kings are too happy. Their hearts should be steeped every night in private sorrow, that their eyes might distil in the day loving tears enough to drown their subjects' griefs. What is your prayer? [Opens the paper.]
Ha! away— they come. Hold! here is my purse.

[Retires to the back of the stage.
Barb.

You see it is good paper; I get gold for it. This way, Conrado; I have something secret to say to you.

Con.

No, no; I don't like secrets. Go your ways.

Barb.
[Aside.]

Have I lived forty years, and shall I not make a man follow me. [She holds up the purse at him. Conrado follows her.]
I know the men.

[Exeunt.
Tancred
[advancing].

What an eclipse is here! Her words are chilling clouds that overhang the light beneath, darkening what first shone out to dazzle and delight me—her precious name. She speaks of ranks and dignities! and bids me cast her from my thought. Bid the earth cast off the sun, dismiss his daily warmth, then blacken in the rayless air.—I must see her. But how? Roger will devise. Whatever can be done, he

will do best and quickest. But for my love for him, I should envy his unchained spirit, so self-less strong, so apt for others' wants. I will go seek him, and in his love and his wisdom find solace and direction.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The Same.
Enter King, Orontio, Chamberlain, Osmond, Alphonso, Manfred, and Attendants.
King.
Where is this messenger from Aragon?

Cham.
May it please your Majesty, he waits without.

King.
Let him at once be ushered to our presence.
[Exit an Attendant.
I hope he brings good tidings from our cousin.
Re-enter Attendant with Messenger.
Whate'er your mission, sir, I bid you welcome.
From Aragon I look for naught but good.

Mess.
Your Majesty, my master bade me greet you
With phrases built of warmest epithets;
And as a token of his royal love,
Makes me the bearer of a present to you.
Among the storerooms of his memory,
He hath not one so richly filled, nor one
Whence he doth draw more aliment for joy,
Than that wherein are laid the deeds and words
Acted and uttered by your Majesty,

When he, five years gone by, was here by you
So royally received. Chiefly doth he
Recall—quoting them oft as apothegms,—
The sayings of your clown—

King.
The good old Nestor,
A friend as true as wise, whom now I mourn.

Mess.
Learning his death, and knowing, from his worth,
How great a loss your Majesty hath suffered,
The King by me sends you his favorite clown,
Praying, that you will use him as your own,
And find in him some solace for your grief.

King.
'Tis a most brotherly and kingly act;
And for the loving thought that prompted it,
Still more than for itself, I thank the King.

Mess.
Francisco!
Enter Count Roger, disguised as a Clown.
This, sire, is the man; and though
Free with his tongue, he is an honest fool.

King.
Welcome to Sicily, honest Francisco.
I hope we shall be friends. Of what stuff is your wit?
Come, hold up a piece of it.

Rog.

The sharpest axe can not show its sharpness on the air.

Manf.

Your wit then is dull; for a sharp wit can make matter for itself out of nothing.

Rog.

Were I to use your worship for my wit-stone, I should do a miracle.

Manf.

How so?

Rog.

By making something out of nothing.

All.

A hit! a hit!

King.

Well opened, fool. Here's money for you.

Rog.
[to Manfred.]

Take your share of it.

Manf.

Why should I have a share?

Rog.

Because you have borne the burthen of my wit. In Spain we always feed our ass when we stop to dine.

All.

Good again.

Manf.

A fool and his money are soon parted.

Rog.

That's for the King. Sire, do you always give money to fools.

King.

It is my custom.

Rog.

Then is your Majesty the greatest spendthrift in your realm.

King.
[to Messenger.]

Say to your master, that, to judge the metal by its ring, he has sent me a golden gift.

Mess.

By your Majesty's permission, I will now aboard.

King.

Must you away so soon?

Mess.

It is my King's command that I return at once.

King.

Heaven speed you with a prosperous wind.

Mess.

Francisco, hast thou no message for thy old master?

Rog.

Commend me to his Majesty, and say to him, that I send him no better greeting by you, not because I have none to send; but because I never put precious things into brittle vessels.

Mess.

I'll report you fairly.

[Exit.

King.

Chamberlain, see that Francisco be well cared for.

[Exeunt King, Orontio, Chamberlain, and Attendants, followed by Roger.
Osmond and Alphonso.

Fool! fool! stop, fool!

[Osmond runs after him and plucks him by the arm.
Osm.

Do you not hear us call?

Rog.

My ears heard you, but how was my understanding to know which fool you were calling?

Osm.

Canst thou be trusted with a message to a lady?

Rog.

That depends somewhat on the lady.

Osm.

Excellent! Thou hast had successes, Francisco?

Rog.

Is that a good leg?

Osm.

If you and I are not friends it will be no fault of mine.

Alph.

Well, Francisco, we will trust you; you have an honest face. You will not abuse your opportunities for your own profit against your friends: you'll be a gentleman.

Rog.
[to Osmond.]

Your friend is an Egyptian?

Osm.

An Egyptian!

Rog.

Surely he is from no living land, his notions of the gentleman smack so of antiquity.

Osm.

He is a noble Sicilian, good Francisco; his name Alphonso; mine is Osmond. These two billets are for the ladies Rosalie and Blauche, daughter and niece of the King's prime minister, Orontio. His house is near by. This deliver to Rosalie from Alphonso, this to Blanche from Osmond; handle this to whet the tongue of our envoy; go and come as quickly as you can, and your purse shall not be the lighter

for your quickness. [Exeunt, followed by Manfred, who runs back and calls after the clown.]

Manf.

As thou seemest to know the value of gold, take this.

Rog.

'Tis easier taken than earned. Gold grows here as plenty as garlic.

Manf.

That is for this, [giving a billet,]
the which deliver into the hands of the lady Blanche. Tell her, it comes from Count Manfred of Palermo; on hearing the which, she will read it on the spot. Bring me word that she has done so, and thy fee shall be doubled. These lords of Syracuse know not the value of a love messenger.

Rog.

I'll be sworn they thought in their hearts, as we four stood here together, that we were two wise men and two fools.

Manf.

Egad, I'm of the same opinion; what say you?

Rog.

I like an humble seeming; so, let us not exalt ourselves, but only take them down a peg; and, for the sake of modesty in speech, just say, we were four fools.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A room in Orontio's house.
Rosalie and Blanche.
Blan.
Where is thy wit? Loose it upon thyself,
To whip this girlish humor out of thee.

Ros.
No more, sweet Blanche. Oh! would I'd been a milkmaid.

Blan.
Had then thy love been bounded to thy cows?
As milkmaid thou belike hadst soiled thy pail
With tear-drops from a wound more hopeless yet.
Love mocks at ranks and man-devised divisions.
Cupid delights to be a mischief-maker,
Levelling in a night the reverend bournes
That have for ages stood against encroachment.

Ros.
Henceforth I'll hate all princes.

Blan.
Save one, dear coz.

Ros.
And Naples with its balmy Circean air—
Would that Vesuvius 'neath a fiery flood
Had drowned its treacherous shores, ere I had known them.

Blan.
How quick time flies; or was't but yesterday
Thou chidst thy tongue for that it would not forge
Words warm enough to paint that Paradise,
Where thou hadst been reborn;—that was the phrase.

Ros.
Resolve me now, wise Blanche;—for thou art one
That lov'st to poise things in thy silent brain,
To find their axis, rather than to bark them
With trivial tongue;—resolve me, why it is,
That I, against my will, am robbed of will?
Why suddenly disseated from my throne
Of self-controlment, the most secret chambers
Of my high sovereign mind by stranger thoughts
Rudely invaded, their old furniture
Thrust into corners, while the invaders seize
Amazed authority; and captive I,
Having nor power nor wish to make obstruction—

As though I'd drunk some deep transforming drug—
Look wildly on in a strange passiveness.

Blan.
Thou hast drunk deeply of a subtle drug,
And art transformed with its swift-coursing juice.
But 'tis a transformation like to that,
When in a tardy spring th' impatient Sun,
Piercing the cold flanks of the clodded Earth
With his hot shafts, wakes her to procreant life,
To fill her brow with bloom, her lap with fruit;
Or when in a dark cave sudden is brandished
A flaming torch, by whose creative fire
New treasures are unbarred, now first beheld
By eyes staring in a pleased wilderment.
Thou art bewildered at the wealth of thought,
Unsealed by heat from thy new-lighted heart,
Which so illumes the mind's vast territory,
That things formless before, start into shape,
To maze thee with their boldness and their beauty;
And wishes, hitherto unuttered, rule
With an imperial sweetness of allurement,
That makes their tyranny a blessedness.
The present throbs so with a restless motion,
It is not big enough to hold thy life,
Which overruns into a new-born future,
That swells and stretches into solemn depths,
Crowding itself with costly images
Thou art indeed transformed, dear Rosalie;
Thou art not what thou wast a month ago;—

And wouldst not be; no, not for the whole world.

Ros.
No, that I would not; for I then should part
From my dear Blanche, who is no more herself,
And needs soft tending in her lunacy.
Why, coz, so many words thou never spok'st
In one long day as in this single breath.
Thine was the stillest tongue in Syracuse.
And words so fit and voluble. Good Blanche,
'Tis thou needst comforting: how can I cheer thee?

Blan.
By bringing me a note like that thou hadst.

Ros.
And wilt thou give like answer to it too?

Blan.
Nay, but the count is not a royal prince;
And if he were, I'm not so proud as thou.

Ros.
Happy in that: pride is the thorn of love.
Still happier, that thy love is not misjoined.—
The count, if banished, had no time to write.

Blan.
To lovers true, time never can be wanting,
To do love's duties.

Ros.
Dost thou doubt his truth?

Blan.
I'd sooner doubt myself. So far from that,
Because he does not write, I doubt he's banished.

Enter Barbara.
Barb.
Oh! mistresses, here's the new court-fool,
Francisco; the sauciest wag.

Ros.

I so like a clown. Bring him in, Barbara. [Exit Barbara.]
Blanche and I are just in the mood to hold parley with a fool.

Re-enter Barbara with Count Roger.
Welcome to Syracuse, Francisco. Thou canst but thrive here. Under our sun folly ripens faster than figs.

Rog.

I' faith, your ladyship, the crop looks promising.

Ros.

Tell me, Francisco, why young people are so fond of fools? I hope there's no sin in it.

Rog.

In you it is a twofold virtue; for the young like fools because only fools speak the truth; and young women like them, because, did they not, few of them would get husbands.

Ros.

When I get one, he shall pay you twenty ducats for that speech.

Rog.

May your ladyship be married to-morrow.

Ros.

That's not easy; masculine candidates for matrimony are ever scarce.

Rog.

So are fish on the top of the water: but, sink your hook well baited, and you are sure to have a bite.

Ros.

So, you would have husbands angled for.

Rog.

'Tis the modern fashion. But here at your court men have turned anglers, and use my fingers for hooks. This is to catch the Lady Rosalie. [Rosalie seizes the note and opens it.]
This for the Lady Blanche from Signor Osmond. [Blanche takes the note with indifference.]

Ros.

Francisco, this is for shallow water.

Rog.
[to Blanche.]

Will you bite at this, from Count Manfred of Palermo?

Blan.
That is a golden hook, without bait.
Which of the three dost thou like best?

Rog.
The Palerman gentleman.

Blan.
Wherefore?

Rog.
[Taking out the purse.]
He pays beat.

Blan.
Art thou so mercenary?

Rog.

I but allow its due weight to what is weighty. The universal measurer of values is gold. Does not God plant gold—do not men reap it—do not kings coin it—do not philosophers seek it—do not priests love it—do not women spend it? Shall a fool despise what all men and women prize?

Blan.

As thou thinkest the note is worth the gold thou hadst for it, by giving it back to thee thy wealth will be doubled. [Offering the note.]

Rog.

Nay, it is but blank paper unread by your ladyship. As the best soil bears no fruit till visited by the sun, this page is barren till it be warmed by light from your eyes.

Blan.

Lest it yield briers, I withhold the light.

Rog.

Then will you make yourself a party to a sin.

Blan.

How so?

Rog.

By making me commit that of lying. For on my bringing word, that I saw you read his note, the count promised me a purse of gold; and whoever in these times will not lie to compass a purse, had better get himself buried: he'll rot even if he stays above ground.

Ros.

Thou art, I fear, a hardened sinner, Francisco. What's the news at court to-day?

Blan.

Is the prince to marry the princess Matilda?

Ros.

Is Count Roger banished?

Rog.

I must back to the king.—But first I'll answer your

questions. [Gives them each a note, them exit quickly.]

Blan.
[After they have eagerly read the notes.]

Cousin, what thinkst thou of Francisco?

Ros.

How canst thou think of him at all?

Blan.

I can think of nothing else.

Ros.

And that note—from whom is it?

Blan.

From Francisco.

Ros.

His hand delivered it; but whose hand wrote it?

Blan.

Francisco's.

Ros.

Francisco, Francisco's! Dear Blanche, thou art beside thyself.

Blan.

Read. [Giving her the note.]

Ros.
[Reads.]

“I have thought it wise to make folly the servant to love. Judge of thy power over Roger by the depth of his transformation; and believe, that he who walks in a fool's cap to win thee, would rather lie in his shroud than lose thee.

“As I to you So is the prince to your cousin true. “Francisco.”

Blan.

Put an absolute faith in the last line; for you know, “only fools speak the truth.”

Ros.

Thou puttest faith in every line.

Blan.

That I did before I read them. Cousin, without faith, love could not be born; and once born, therein sprouts the grain wherefrom he feeds. So your majesty should set your royal mind at ease.

Ros.

My majesty will follow thy good council, wise Blanche.

—I have read of a lady, who from a rank not higher than mine was lifted to one of the mightiest thrones of the earth by her lover; and he, not, like Tancred, endowed with a rectitude and nobleness of nature that made his every act a precedent for the best, but, a polluted, perjured, bloodsmeared miscreant.

[Exeunt.