Comedies :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Grove near Naples.
Tancred and Roger.
Tancred.
By Heaven! but I could almost hate my rank,
That it went nigh to rob me of myself.
Roger, but thou—thou art not sociable;
Or else thou 'dst kept me amorous company,
And toward her cousin vented as sweet sighs
As I toward Rosalie. Could I but think
Thou wast in love: then wert thou perfect, whole.
Knowst thou where joy and sorrow are akin?

Roger.
I know that love is crafty at invention.

Tanc.
I'll tell thee. Parents are they both of wisdom.

Roger.
Like Hercles' labor 'mong th' Hesperides,
Thy brain hath wrought a logic miracle,
Plucking such ponderous fruit from sapless soil.

Tanc.
Weight hath indeed the fruit this month's new joy
Is laden with, being this golden truth;
Who is a Prince, he can not be a man.

Rog.
'Tis more than golden, 'tis a royal truth.

Tanc.
Thy drift, Philosopher?

Rog.
The present will
Is absolute in Kings 'gainst fact and reason.

Tanc.
Than this, reason ne'er dug a purer gem.
For list:—had I not doffed the princely state,
Hither I had not come; and not come hither,
Unblest had lived; my richest vein unwrought;
Unblown; in nature's wisest page unschooled;
Undeeded in the fairest field of action;
My life so sterile, that the warden, Death,
Had found my soul for skyward flight unfledged.

Rog.
Heigho!

Tanc.
Best cause hast thou to sigh. Believe me,
We are but half ourselves, till in our frames
Love's soul is breathed. Enlarged even thou shalt be,
Transformed,—

Rog.
Into a looking-glass, wherein
An amorous maid shall feast on her dear self.

Tanc.
Truly a transformation to be wished.
Thy humorous conceit doth aptly paint
Love's joy and potency, whereby are we
Of grosser qualities so purged, our hearts
Become of Angels' souls the lucent mirrors
And blest reverberants of woman's smiles.

Rog.
Or frowns.

Tanc.
If Rosalie did ever frown.

Rog.
Upon my word, I never saw her frown.

Tanc.
And did she so, why frowns would sit on her
Like clouds at molten eve, sunned into grace,
Made beautiful by what they bask in.

Rog.
Thou,
Meanwhile, as faithful glass—forget not that—
As smile for smile, wilt give back frown for frown;
Whence the black danger, that those doubling frowns,
Breeding as cloud doth cloud in angry weather
Heaven's face besmirch with gusty grimness,
Not to be rent but by a stormful breach;
And then, obsequious glass, instead of smiles,
Hot lightning and the rough-mouthed thunder echoes.
Alas! too certain 'tis, as smile to smile,
And frown to frown, love leads to matrimony.

Tanc.
Now I suspect thee. Thou dost never flout
At aught thyself hast not a part in. Come,
Confess.

Rog.
Well, in what guise? Shall I protest
A melancholy sickness at my heart,—

Tanc.
All sicknesses that life is wasted with
Are purged from hearts that are by love invigored.
Does it not seem as thou wert disembodied;
Snatched up from earthly moods and cares and thralments;
In thoughts above this muddy sphere ensteeped;
Consorted with celestial essences—

Rog.
Hold—I'll confess: only leave me on earth.
For 'tis the very front of my confession,
That her dear face looked never yet so fair.
I'm all terrestrial, and this clod, my body,
Paces its native dust with prouder port,
Since I have here discerned in what sweet forms
Our elemental grossness can be wrought;
For Blanche's eyes are only fulgent clay.

Tanc.
How thou art curséd with imagination,
That canst espy such vile affinities.

Rog.
Diamond and gold are dust, and all the feasts
The senses in their finest hunger take
Are but more cunning mixtures of mere mud.

Tanc.
Well, rail thy worst, and beat thy bars; thou'rt caged.

Rog.
To friendship and to loyalty a martyr.
My Prince, my friend, a pining prisoner,
And I not share in his captivity!
But see, where yonder come our gentle captors.

Tanc.
Enlinked in one another's shining arms,
In fragrant interchange of maiden love.

Rog.
Like woodbine and white jesmin interlocked,
Perfuming each the other with their breaths.

Tanc.
The branches stoop to kiss their radiant brows.

Rog.
The birds have hushed to hear their cadenced voices.

Enter Rosalie and Blanche. They start on seeing Tancred and Roger, and disengage their arms.
Tanc.
Forgive us that we fright your solitude.

Rosalie.
In truth we did not think to meet you here.
Yet is the meeting apt, for we must hence;
And first would thank you for your courtesies.

Tanc.
What you are fain to call our courtesies,
Are only echoes, shadows of yourselves;
Doings, the which, although by us enacted,
Are yet as indivisible from your presence
As is illumination from the sun.
You gender courtesy, as you do life
On the pleased mirror that retorts your image.

Ros.
Your words, sir, are what words not always are,
Near kinsmen of your acts, and these embrace
With sumptuous phrase, that still enriches them
As caskets deep-enchased do costly gems.

Blanche.
And thus-enclasped, more glibly shall we bear them
Away to Syracuse.

Rog.
To Syracuse!

Tanc.
To Syracuse!

Ros.
We must take ship to day;
And with good Neptune's favor shall o'erride
His wind-ploughed field ere a new morrow dies.

Rog.
Wherefore to Syracuse!

Ros.
It is our nest,
Whence we with half-fledged wings have lately flown.

Tanc.
Rumor belies it, or 'tis a city worth
A voyage to behold; wise and well governed.

Rog.
If so, a solitary paragon

It is 'mong cities.

Ros.
Better can we tell
Of convent-rule, wherein we have been bounded.
Yet, so far may our girlish knowledge stretch,
As to report the general heart, whose pulse
Beats everywhere content, unsoiled by fear,
Save for the future.

Tanc.
Ah! whence comes this fear?

Ros.
The King is agéd, and surmises cloud
The hopes of thinking subjects, when they weigh
What changes may assault us at his death.

Tanc.
Behind the duteous masking of your thought
I spy the tell-tale glance of meaning, thus;—
The good King's heir is somewhat better known
Unto the fears of men than to their hopes.

Rog.
A fickle Prince, constant in self-devotion?

Blanche.
Nay, sir, your guess hits wide of the crown's heir.

Rog.
Ay; self-love in a Prince is pardoned quickest.
It is a fault the prostrate subjects love.

Ros.
Howe'er that be, it is no fault of his.
Rather is he taxed with self-forgetfulness,
Not valuing the homage of his place,
Its princely dignities and royal dues;
But given to still and learned occupations;
Whereto he is enlisted by his friend
And loved companion, Roger, Count of Susa,
Deep-versed in hidden things.

Tanc.
A sorcerer?
A solemn necromancer, draped in black,
To maze the empty many?

Ros.
Nay, he wins
Men by his wit, when he consorts with them,
Which is not often; chiefly using them
For laughter. One as skilled in the brain's secrets
As in the occulted qualities of metals,
Taking small pleasure in affairs of state,
And less in courtly pomps.

Tanc.
A misanthrope,
Addicted to unholy entertainments;
The Prince unteaching of his princely port,
And charging him with guilty novelties.
What's his complexion? Bilious, lean, and dry?

Ros.
Herein the testimony of our tongues
Hath not our eyes for vouchers. We but speak
With Rumor's voice, which is so loud and boastful,
When bruiting the doings of the great,
It overleaps the walls of cloister life.
But if by the bright bigness of its theme
It be not falsely swelled, the Prince and Count
Are both, in the outward panoply of person
As well equipped as in more secret gifts.

Tanc.
You make me wish to know this wizard Count.

Rog.
And me to look on this unprincely Prince.

Ros.
You're very like t' encounter them; for they,
As you do, take delight in voyaging,

And oft remove themselves for many moons
Seeking close converse with outlandish seers
And delvers in forbidden mines of knowledge—
A cause of dutiful disquietude
Unto the King and Court. But come, dear cousin,
'Tis time that we commit us to the waves.
Our ready ship, chafing her cable curb,
Springs at the frothy sea, eager to chase
This sunny breeze that runs so fast toward Sicily.

Tanc.
Would that we could transmute ourselves to wind,
That we might fan you home with gentlest force,
Spending our life in breath upon your sails
When friendly breezes falter.

Ros.
To minister
Unseen, felt but not known; that were to scale
Unearthly heights of bounteousness. The thought
Enfolds its thinker: this your courteous wish
Embalms you in our memory. Farewell!

Tanc.
That voice so tuneful should speak word so harsh.
Till now I never learned its envious meaning.

Ros.
To learn is ever the best end of travel.

Rog.
And to their teachers learners should be grateful.
Wherefore for this, your bitter-sweet instruction,
We thank you. Could we but repay the lesson,—

Ros.
We, sir, are neither travellers nor scholars.

Rog.
Learners you are, for you are young and witty;
And the best lesson is not always learnt
Through watchful purpose, but by sudden light

Self-kindled in the docile heart.

Blan.
You speak, sir,
As one who had himself learnt many lessons.

Rog.
Fair lady, our best schooling is within;
And now I speak from instant inspiration.

Ros.
Cousin, we know the cunning subtlety
These gentlemen can gild plain words withal.
They'll hold us here with polished argument
Till the wind shifts. Once more we say, Adieu.

Tanc.
Perforce then we must say, Adieu.

Rog.
Adieu.

[Exeunt Rosalie and Blanche.
Tanc.
Let's quick aboard. Will there be wind for both?
The jealous breeze will hug their sails alone,
Plaguing all meaner hulls with lazy calms.
Or will he not pervert his unchecked license,
Madly to head them off from Sicily,
That he may hold them longer in his clasp?
Haste we aboard; then fasten on their wake
Like pirate on his prey.—No; we'll to leeward,
And so, sail in the air that hath kissed them,
Made odorous, like breezes from Spice Islands.
And if the amorous wind, for the prolonging
Of his delight, shall toss them from their track,
Toward Sardi's laughing hills or Afric's waste,
We'll toss—

Rog.
No more, no more.

Tanc.
Why, what's the matter?

Rog.
Dancing on briny waves what shall I be,
When from the billowy motion of your tongue
I am already sea-sick?

Tang.
Ha! ha! ha!
I had forgot your qualmish malady.
Oh! Sicily, my country, till this hour
I knew not how I love thee.

Rog.
Whither wilt thou?

Tang.
Whither? Whither but back to Syracuse?

Rog.
The King's son wafted to his capital
Intorted in the wings of upstart Cupids.

Tang.
A seat for gods to envy.

Rog.
And for men
To weep at.

Tang.
Ay, with tears of crocodile.
Roger, why should the Prince englut the man?

Rog.
Princehood and manhood are blank opposites.
He who begins by swallowing his fellows,
Must end with the engulfing of himself.

Tang.
I will have no such ending or beginning.
We'll think of this, and you shall do the thinking.

Rog.
The King's prime minister, he too will think.
Methinks, he'll think our thinking is unthinking.

Tang.
Well, now I'll think of naught but Rosalie,
Cleansing thereby my thoughts for enterprise.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

King's Palace in Syracuse.
Enter King, Orontio, his Prime Minister, and Bernardo, a Priest, Confessor to the King.
King.
Bernardo, you have searched my niece, to clutch
The very kernel of her disposition?

Bern.
I have, my liege; it is as sweet as sound.
A truer servant of the holy church
Lives not uncanonized.

King.
I mean, Bernardo,
Touching her marriage with my son.

Bern.
My liege.
Devout obedience turns all duties light;
Foreruns the will, subjecting it unfelt
To clerical predominance; whereby
Encounter 'twixt desire and duteous need
Loses its angry pith, and acts like this,
Where will and wisdom close in glad embrace,
Are calmly hailed as providential blessings.

King.
Though she has known some summers more than Tancred,
Still wears she green the glistening crown of youth.
Marriage becomes a Prince. His daily life
It sanctifies, and plants him in the respect
Of sober men. Orontio, have you tidings
Of Tancred?

Orontio.
Sire, my messenger, a quick one,

Found not the prince in Florence, nor could learn
News of him there.

King.
These wayward voyagings
Beseem him not, and have for the throne's heir
A peril disproportioned to their aim.

Bern.
'Gainst the remitting perils of the sea
He's armed by provident contrivances
Of Art, and the picked skill that waits on princes.
But hourly near him, and as subtly poisonous
As speechless exhalations from a fen—
For which there is no antidote but distance—
Are hotter dangers that assail his soul.

King.
You have before frighted my ear, Bernardo,
With stormy mutterings against Count Roger;
And I, with all a father's watchfulness,
Have hearkened, questioned, probed, and nothing found
Worse in the count than the irreverence
Native to youth, which riper years will physic.

Bern.
Pardon, my liege; you much misprize this man.
He's old in thought, and never has been young.
'Tis his great fault that in youth's levity
He's wanting. He bemocks our sacred calling,
Gores custom and time's steadfast usages;
And with licentious hand seeks to unrobe
Nature's chaste mysteries. Harmless alone,
He is, as princely parasite, a sore
Sickening the healthy heart of Sicily.

King.
Marriage will heal this sore. Two warmer fires

Of wedded love consume all lighter joys.
Love is a whetted knife 'twixt youthful friendships.—
I hear, Orontio, that you have a purpose
To let your daughter first behold the world
In mask.

Oron.
'Tis true, my liege. To-morrow I
Present my niece and daughter to my friends.
My brother's orphaned child and my own girl,
Have grown together in my heart as one.
Our festal entertainment will lack naught
But that my King should grace it with his looks.

King.
Count me, my friend, among your grateful guests.—
Bernardo, be your cleric task, to season
The good Matilda for her budding duties.

[Exeunt King and Orontio
Bernardo,
alone.
The sovereign church hath duties paramount.
The single fountain of true piety,
Self-love in her is one with generous virtue,
And self-replenishment religious goodness;
And thence, her heaviest sin were self-neglect,
Now, through conjunction of our separate loves,—
Made one by interchange of opposites,—
Princess Matilda is betrothed to us.
As rich is she in reverence as gold.
Marriage with Tancred would imperil both.
For he, not having an obedient bent,
Already loves us not; and this his lukeness,—

Without the acid of his scoffing friend,—
Might turn to hate through dastard jealousy.
Men are not wrought to piety by women
So oft as wives are thence distraught by husbands.
One of our harvest-fields is maidenhood,
Which sheds its buds in autumn fruit on us.

Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Hall in Orontio's House.
King, Orontio, Rosalie, Blanche, unmasked. Numerous Guests, Male and Female, all masked. Music playing a Waltz.
King.
Music compels quick motion in the blood,
Making slow age revolt against its slowness.
These dancing notes bring sad sweet memories,
Gifts from free youth to yoked maturity.
But for this daily mixture in life's caldron
Of was with is, age were as stale and sour
As pools deserted by the brooks that feed them.
Great Nature is so bounteous provident,
She sets strong eddies in our downward current,
Bending life's waters back toward their young fonts,
That we live o'er our virgin days in offspring.
My thoughts now think more with my son than self.
Is it not so with you, Orontio?

Oron.
My liege,
'Tis even so: I breathe but for my daughter,
And sometimes fear that losing her, I should
Weary of life.

King.
Still, thou wilt lose her; for,
Her time is almost come, when she, transplanted
From the close hot bed of paternal love,
Must grow out doors, and face, as best she can
With her own competence, the blasts and frosts
Of the bleak world's unceasing winter. She
Is marriageable, and being beautiful
And high, she will be married. And 'tis best
That we—who can not war 'gainst Nature's needs,
Without rebellious danger to our cause—
Make treaty with strong Nature's wilfulness,
And thus, in th' act of resignation stamp—
By one deep pressure of authority—
Our cooler judgment on young passion's heats.
Among our topmost nobles have you found,
Orontio, one worthy of Rosalie?

Oron.
I have not found because I have not sought.
My kinsman Conrad and myself are pledged,
By mutual contract early registered,
To tighten ties of chance with ties of choice.
His eldest son, Alphonso, and my daughter
Are by us plighted. He is here to-night,
To scan young Rosalie, himself unscanned.

King.
The hottest look, even of envy, would—
Like floods of fiery dawn loosed on red May-buds—
Inflame her beauties into deeper glow.
Alphonso is of noble stem, and Rumor
Echoes his name in lordly notes of praise.—

Let's walk awhile before I take my leave.—

Tanc.
Who is't that speaks so long to Rosalie?

Rog.
I'll tell thee if thou'lt first tell me, who is
The blissful wretch that talks so much to Blanche.

Tanc.
To lift that mask I'd give a month of life.

Rog.
We profit most by visors; and for me,
I love this foolery for itself, so like
The foolish world, where men go always masked,
Seeking their ends through thin hypocrisies.
This is a private theatre, whose parts
Are each played perfectly, because so dully.
All here's theatrical because 'tis true,
And true because it is theatrical.—

Tanc.
Lady, your privilege is your deprivation.

Ros.
That it deprives me of your phrase's meaning?

Tanc.
Your eyes are stars making night beautiful,
Yet seeing not the beauty that they make.

Ros.
Your words have caught the stars' mysteriousness.

Tanc.
For looking while I speak, they are enskyed.
But words are weak; mine stagger 'neath their load.

Ros.
And what is that?

Tanc.
A heart so full of sighs
It has no room for joys that would o'erfill it.

Ros.
A traitor heart, to let its enemies in
And keep out friends.

Tanc.
It hugs lean sighs as friends,
Making of pain its petted biting comrade.

Ros.
A foolish heart, to love its misery.

Tanc.
Folly and wo are ever close of kin;
And so 'twill not be comforted or counselled.

Ros.
A stubborn heart that will not take kind counsel.

Tanc.
Condemn it not till you have counselled it.

Ros.
Who needs advice is prone to take the bad.

Tanc.
Too true; and yours, I fear, would not be good.

Ros.
Why ask it then?

Tanc.
Because, if bad—I mean
Bad by its impotence to cure my ill—
I should not follow it.

Ros.
Why do you think
My counsel would be bad?

Tanc.
Because I fear so.
One of love's follies is, to war with hope.

Ros.
Sir Knight, is this the first time we have spoken?

Tanc.
Fair lady, I could swear that never till now
Heard I your voice's full melodiousness,
Nor saw the perfect brilliance of your face;
And swearing so, I should not be forsworn.

Servant.
My lady, Lord Orontio bids me say,
There are new guests who would be greeted.—

Manfred.
I pray you, sir, the lady you just spoke with,
Is she Orontio's niece?

Rog.
You love the lady?

Manf.
I think I do, and shall be sure I do,
If once assured she is Orontio's niece.

Rog.
'Tis then the minister who is your first love,
His niece your second. You're an office-seeker?

Manf.
No, sir; I am Count Manfred of Palermo.

Rog.
Sir Count, the lady is Orontio's daughter.

Manf.
More worthy still of love than even his niece.
I'm in your debt; tell me how I can pay you.

Rog.
I live to serve my friends: let me be yours.
The rich and noble Manfred of Palermo—

Manf.
You know me then;—

Rog.
Sir Count, attaint me not
In your high thoughts, taxing me ignorant.

Manf.
I crave your pardon. Speech and vesture both
Proclaim the gentleman. Be you my friend.
You know the lady well? You have her ear?
Now, sir, were she my wife—

Rog.
Orontio's daughter,—

Manf.
The same. Were she my wife, there were not then
A higher, happier man in Sicily,
Than I myself, Count Manfred, save the King.

Rog.
And prince.

Manf.
The prince is not enough a prince.
He is too learned, and lacks showiness.
Then he affects not princely things, as feasts
And horses, priests, pomps, soldiers.—But the lady:
Use, sir, your tongue for me. I see you know me.
Convey your knowledge to her ear. Farewell.
I go to please her father with this theme.

[Exit.
Rog.
Convey your knowledge to her ear: ha! ha! ha!
Oh! you have missed a prodigy.

Tanc.
What's that?

Rog.
A creature that confounds philosophy:
A fellow whose curled head would float in vacuo.
His brain insults the laws of gravitation,
So gaseous buoyant 'tis with vanity.
He's gone to ask Orontio for his daughter.

Tanc.
For Rosalie?

Rog.
No; Blanche, whom he believes—
With his clear insight trusting me—the daughter.

Tanc.
This may breed mischief.

Rog.
Sport, and nothing more.

Tanc.
Whenever I've come near to Rosalie,
There's one who has so tracked me as he were
My very shadow, cast by light from her.
My eyes would not play hypocrite, but at him,
Ere I could rule them, threw defiant glances.
Roger, this masquerading irks and chafes me.

Rog.
To win sweet Blanche, I'd mask it for a year—

Ros.
Ha, gentlemen, when did you come from Naples?

Tanc.
We are discovered.

Rog.
But the half of us.—
Fair vagabonds, we came with you; for Naples,
Wanting the fruitful sunshine of your looks,
Grew to a bladeless desert in a night.

Ros.
Sir, I perceive, our air of Sicily
Rusts not your speech.

Rog.
Light is rust's enemy;
And thus are we kept polished by your lustre.

Blan.
Sir Knight, your tongue speaks sunbeams.

Ros.
Moonbeams, cousin;
His light is lunar, caught from us, his Sun.
But now, sir Moon, come shine with your own beams,
Unmasking you for supper.

Rog.
Nay, not I.

Ros.
Your reason.

Rog.
Folly masked is not so foolish
As unmasked. I would neither see nor show
Folly quite naked. Are you satisfied?

Ros.
Entirely—with the folly of your reason;
And if your friend hath not good freight of wisdom
Wherewith to ballast such big bales of folly,
You'll founder ere you end your voyagings.

Tanc.
Think me not vain; but I, in truth believe,
That I am wise.

Ros.
You have then wiser reasons
For wisdom than your comrade has for his folly.

Tanc.
The wisest, and your tongue it is that speaks them.
Each syllable of yours attests me wise.

Ros.
[To Roger.]
Interpret.

Rog.
Nay the proverb bars me.

Ros.
The proverb!

Rog.
Ay, “a wise speech sleeps in a foolish ear.”

Blan.
Cousin, we must begone. If, gentlemen,
You will not in to supper, we must leave you.

Tanc.
Think not we are discourteous; but we have
In Syracuse a mission of great import,
The which demands we should as yet be secret.

Ros.
Good night; and prosper in your embassy.

Tanc.
Your good will's worth more than a king's credentials.
[Exeunt Rosalie and Blanche.
Roger, my spirits flag and I grow heavy.

Rog.
Love genders thought faster than rain doth grass,
And thought is serious, and seriousness
Grows heavy if it lasts; so, when it does,
Tracing its sprightly pedigree to love,
Your spirits will remount. This is no time
For doltish melancholy. Our best wit
We need, and whetted to its keenest edge,
To shiver the entanglements of custom.

Tanc.
Your mettle kindles mine, and I am purged
Already of the lees of cloudy fancies.

Rog.
Our task is subtler than oft falls to princes;
To compass liberty through joy, and joy
Through love. Then with the three a diadem
To build worth all the crowns of tedious kings.
Now let's devise the measures for success,
And counterplot the plots of adversaries.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Public Square in Syracuse.
Enter Alphonso, Manfred, and Osmond.
Manf.
These few days are enough to give me wonder,
How one in Syracuse can keep so long
A bachelor.

Osm.
Palermo is a mine
As deeply veined with beauty; but the things
We have we prize not at their height, for aye
Stretching beyond us for a better still;—
Nature's device to draw us up and onward;—
Thus through dissatisfaction with our own
To satisfy her hungry appetite
For sunny change and rich variety.

Alph.
You are a talking theorist; for still
You hug the wilting shade of singleness.

Osm.
'Tis but a step into the sun.

Alph.
And you
Feel autumn's coolness creeping on your veins?

Osm.
I know not if't be that: it well may be:
But since last night I hate what I have loved,
And am in love with thoughts I've always shunned;
I would be the opposite of what I've been,
Think me a fool for being what I am;
And, like a bankrupt, find myself to-day
Suddenly dispossessed of all I've lived on.
I'm ready to begin the world anew.

Manf.
You have been strongly dosed. Who's your physician?

Osm.
Our host Orontio's niece.

Manf.
We shall be cousins.

Osm.
How so?

Manf.
I've asked Orontio for his daughter.

Alph.
His daughter!

Osm.
And how answered he to that?

Manf.
Just as becomes a minister of state;
With stateliness and high-bred courtesy.

Osm.
And promised you the brilliant Rosalie?

Manf.
A minister of state proceeds by steps.
In a first interview he does not say,
In audible words, “Sir, take my daughter.” No;
That were to cheapen both himself and daughter.
But he is shrewd; and being so, will ask,
What makes against this match, and what makes for it?
My friends can doubt not what will be the answer.

Alph.
You have a rival in a visored knight,
Whose steel-cooped eyes fastened on Rosalie,
Making her redden with their fiery gaze,
Such was their glow and hot tenacity;—
And yet, methought, her fancies ripened in it,
Growing more rich and precious from his looks,
Like a Burgundian vineyard in the sun.

Manf.
I'm used to rivals and I dread them not.
Besides, the knight you speak of is my friend.

Alph.
What is his name?

Manf.
I know it not; but finding,
When I accosted him, he knew me well,
I have bespoke his friendly services.
I will go seek him. Gentlemen, adieu.

[Exit.
Osm.
This fellow's tongue filches from words their wealth.
When I have heard him speak, I would be silent,
Ashamed to use speech that has been so emptied.

Alph.
The artless gloss of Rosalie's perfection
Is dulled by the close breath of such a coxcomb.
Osmond, his love makes love ridiculous.

Osm.
He speaks for my especial chastisement.

Alph.
Perhaps for mine. What think you of his suit?

Osm.
That 'tis not worth a thought.

Alph.
You know his station,
Wide-rooted 'mong the highest, in a soil
Steeped to the covert rock in quickening gold.
And in these rank and merchantable times,
Gold is a very pope. It cleanseth crime,
Uplifts the vile to purple altitudes,
Sets crowns upon the base, uncrowns the noble,
And with a sensual sneer upon its front,
Usurps the righteous throne of patient virtue.

Osm.
Orontio, like most men whose breath is fed
On the cold heights of laborsome ambition,
Prizes the glitter of life's pithless pomps,
More than its beauties; but he loves his daughter;
And to that love he adds—like all shrewd worldlings—
A scorn of fools. He will not wed his child
To a gilt popinjay. Look to the knight
With burning gaze.

Alph.
But he is Manfred's friend.

Osm.
'Tis only Manfred's tongue that says he is.
In love trust looks more than the stoutest words.

Alph.
Osmond, let's you and I live bachelors.

Osm.
What, are you out of love with love already?

Alph.
Being hardly in, I'm pricked with thorns already.
I fear there is a briery road before us,
And we shall get well scratched in pushing through.

Osm.
Is it my disposition or my luck?
To me the road is a new swath of carpet,
Inlaid by artful Nature's freshest hand;
Soft as a parrot's plumage and as green,
Bowered by thornless rosebuds, whose sweet breath
Carcsses me, as I trip me along,
Blithe as a robin to his vernal mate.

Alp.
If that's your mood, you ought to be alone;
For rhapsody is spoilt by listeners. Adieu.

Osm.
Nay, I'm too happy now for solitude.
We'll look up, Cousin Manfred, and from him
Learn something of the thorny knight.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Orontio's Garden.
Enter Rosalie and Blanche.
Ros.
Nay, we should trust ourselves. We two are strong
In one another. In thine eyes I look,
And fortify me with thy innocence.

Blan.
'Tis thou, dear cos, that givest strength to me.
Alone, I should not dare to stir in this.
To maidens the forbidden fruit is freedom:
So says our father.

Ros.
Not for worlds, dear Blanche,
Would I gainsay so wise and good a father;
But yet, I feel rebellious motions in me.
The taste of liberty we had in Naples
Feeds a new appetite, born of itself.
Scanted in food to this, I can not live.
Freedom seems now the parent that begat me,
So strong and fresh is the dear life it brings.—
What art thou thinking of so soberly?

Blan.
I'm thinking of the chains that freedom forges.

Ros.
And wondering, how that little heart of thine
Doth furnish metal for the links thereof.

Most true it is, that freedom forges chains;
But ever of a subtler property.
At first, of grossest iron, wherewithal
To bind the raw and rugged; then of steel,
By subtler art wrought to a keen compactness;
Of silver next, worn as an ornament,
That 'neath its burnished folds hides rings of force;
And then of kneaded gold, whose yellow sheen
And ponderous magnificence lure hearts
Into contentment with their servitude;
And later higher still, of precious stones,
Diamond and ruby intermeshed with gold.
And when that life beats richer, fuller, better,
Then ornament and might are interfused,
Man wearing rule as Earth her atmosphere,
The circumambient watchman of her wealth,
Beauty and use being one; until at last,
Great freedom grows so skilful strong, her bonds
All spring self-woven from the core of joy,
And life, purged by abundant action, is
A free enchainment, a chained liberty,
Like the linked multitude of peopling stars,
As beautiful, as vast, as pure as they.

Blan.
Good Heaven! Cousin, where learnt you all this?

Ros.
From the great teacher, Love. Am I not apt?

Blan.
I wish we'd given them meeting within doors.

Ros.
This hall of nature is most apposite
To such an interview. The boundless vault

And steadfast blue of heaven, and nothing less,
Should be the witnesses of the large hopes
And sacramental vows of this encounter.

Blan.
You still forget they are unknown to us.

Ros.
Dear Blanche, I shall begin to think thou lov'st not,
Thou art so skeptical. Love is religious;
It nourisheth a generous faith. Unknown!
Their names and place and outward circumstance,
The accidental furnishments of men,
We know not. But the temper of their souls,
Their hearts' clean manly quality, we know;
And if there be, as we have credit for,
A sifting virtue in a woman's instinct,
To point, like the divining rod, to where
There is a spring of truth and courtesy,
I will forego my use of polished judgment,
And henceforth grossly follow corporal sense,
If both of them are not true gentlemen.

Blan.
Oh! they are that. I'll trust my honor to them
Further than I had thought to trust a man.

Ros.
I knew thee, hypocrite, that seemed to chide,
While inly thou didst thank me for my boldness.—
They come. They shall at once unmask them quite.
Enter Tancred and Roger.
What will you augur of Sicilian dames,
When maidens thus profane their modesty,
And pluck the angry beard of white-haired Custom.

Holding hushed interviews with new-met strangers?

Tanc.
Custom is sickly, and had better cast
His hoary slough, or kill himself outright,
When he would clog the gait of innocence.

Ros.
Customs are often tenderly defensive;
And there is one which bids, that gentlemen,
To ladies who have trusted them so far
Beyond the sanction of its ordinances,
Come forth out of the darkness of disguise
Into the light of chivalrous openness,
Declaring who and whence and what they are.

Enter from behind, King and Orontio.
Tanc.
Heavier on us, the sinners, than on you,
The sinned against, weighs this unwilled concealment.

King.
Does such concealment fit a royal prince?
The son I can forgive.—And you, Sir Count;
Warnings I've had, the which I heeded not,
So honest was my faith in you. But now
Your acts reprove your friends, reward your foes.

Rog.
The warnings which your Majesty has had
Were juster than your present accusation;
Yet were they slanders.

Tanc.
Sire, on me let fall
Whatever stroke of blame you will to strike:
Tancred, not Roger, is the guilty one,
If guilt can be, unfelt by th' actors of it.

Ros.
Prince Tancred!

Blan.
Count Roger!

Oron.
You know them not?

Ros.
We know them and we know them not.

Oron.
What's this?

King.
Speak, and undo the tangled noose wherein,
Like frighted hares, you all stand wildly snared.

Ros.
Your Majesty, in Naples, where we were,
To sport a month in easeful solitude,
Two courtly cavaliers did we encounter,
Sauntering like us on that sweet-tempered shore.
Bearing and speech announced them gentlemen,
As their large conversation did attest
They were, what they avowed themselves to be,
Scholars in quest of art and knowledge; only
They swore, they learnt more in an hour's talk
With our wise selves, than in a year with sages.
'Twas but a week since there we left them both,
When yesterevening, through the unlifted vizors
Of mailed knights, again their voices smote us.

Oron.
And where learned you so young the time-cropped knowledge
To know, who is a gentleman, who not?

Ros.
Near Naples, honored father; and th' attestors
Of our discernment are before you now.

Oron.
Well, well: but what do you unguarded here?

Ros.
Besides the guardianship of these your walls,
We have, sir, that of our own modesty.

King.
Beshrew me, but your daughter is well-tongued.

I swear, Orontio, that had I a girl,
I would she might be like to yours in speech.

Oron.
My liege, offence is parent of her wit.
Women find always words to mend their faults.
Get in: the hot look of the saucy sun
Will not so quickly stain a maiden's cheek
As will the world's bold eyes her modesty.
Women, like pictures, are best seen indoors.

Ros.
There to be looked at, never listened to.
I'm glad I'm not a man.

King.
Your reason, fair one?

Ros.
I would not have a picture for my mate.

[Exeunt Rosalie and Blanche.
King.
A witty wench, with will to match her beauty.—
For you, Count Roger, you have leave to travel
For three months longer. 'Tis our further wish,
To-morrow find you not in Sicily.

Tanc.
I pray you, sire, put like command on me.
The exile of my friend, for fault of mine,
Sends me to worse than lonely banishment.
My conscience will make Syracuse a prison.

King.
The penalty will weigh then heaviest where
There is most fault. My son must stay at home:
The state doth need his aidance. 'Tis full time
Prince Tancred had put hand to that rough helm
Whose mastering motions he shall one day master.

[Exeunt King and Orontio.
Tanc.
This is unkind and cruel of the King.

Rog.
Nay, for a king I think 'tis clemency.
Judge not the King, lest you prejudge yourself;
An error hasty youth is prone to. Then,
Kings of all mortals are most fallible.
Temptation, which inferior men assaults
In single files, at parted intervals,
Beleaguers them with unremitting squadrons;
Or hourly sooths them like a fawning courtier.
Their very elevation tempts them act.
Like children, throwing porcelain from a window,
Then shouting gleeful at their smashing power,
Their trifles gain a fairy potency,
Gathering their weight from distance of descent.

Tanc.
Roger, is this a time to moralize?
You are banished, banished.

Rog.
Ay, I am, so far
As royal words can banish me. But, Tancred,
On earth there is a king kinglier than kings,
With sway more regal than imperial will,
The one sole sovereign of the active world.
Thought is the topmost potentate 'mong men.
Of this unconquerable conqueror
The realm is obstacle, the sceptre triumph.
Like the hurricane, invisible he comes,
But with a might mightier than air or light,
Whose subtlest spirit he grasps for his wise use,
Making all elements his instruments.
Tracking the purposes of God's deep will,

Threads shall he wind from Labor's thousand distaffs,
To weave the cables of humanity.
With his calm strength steadying the eye of truth,
The golden scales of justice he shall balance,
Teach Charity to multiply herself,
And rusted Faith cleanse of impurity.
Hearkening the whispers of remotest law,
This flat firm earth he shall unseat and launch it
A whirling globe into the vast of space.
And when from Nature's fields he shall have housed
Heaped harvests of fine knowledge—potent man
Self-circled with beneficence—he shall
Unload the world of its wide misery.

Tanc.
Thy mounting words wound while they profit me,
Proclaiming through their wisdom my great loss,
My ears condemned to fast so long a Lent.

Rog.
Faith is a common virtue, but being blind,
Believers fall in ditches. Canst not think
My wits can ward this petty banishment?

Tanc.
Dear friend, thou know'st how easy 'tis for me
To trust in thee, yielding my thought to thine.
So do I now; and yet, my best wits flag,
Contriving how thou canst escape this exile.

Rog.
Dear Tancred, his staid courtiers tell the King
I am thy evil counsellor. Their plaint
I will rebuke, by giving thee this counsel:
Think not so well of kings, so ill of man.
When thou art king—

Tanc.
Thou shalt be the king's king,
Through thy imperial sovereignty of thought.

Rog.
When thou art king, thou wilt forget Prince Tancred.

Tanc.
If thee I do forget or cease to love,
May my heart canker—

Rog.
Nay, nay; not so solemn.—
Now, touching this light banishment, thou know'st,
That in the cozening cozened world we live in,
Rogue Seem does half the work of honest Be.
I'll make him work for us; I'll seem to go—

Tanc.
And stay?

Rog.
Not only in security,
But so that from my shelter I can fling,
Faster and sharper than if unconstrained,
Weapons of edge against the enemy.
'Tis a device will win thy gladdest plaudits.
But 'tis not mine.

Tanc.
Not thine!

Rog.
Within thy breast
Dost thou not nurse, at this especial hour,
A quickner of invention, apter, craftier,
Than all ambitions or all motions else
Could ever breed?—'Tis Blanche's thought—as all
That now I have are hers, howe'er I call them—
Which kindles in my brain with light so strong,
It gives me sudden art to baffle kings.
Let's haste to act the highborn stratagem.
When I unfold it, thou shalt make me vain

With mirthful praise, and swear, 'twill help to prove,
That where there is a will there is a way.

SCENE II.

Apartment of Princess Matilda, in the Palace.
Bernardo alone.
Bern.
The footsteps of the great tread out rich odors,
Which they who have the gift can scent afar,
Infallible as harriers on the trail.
For me, I've sped the course with huntsman's haste.
Still freshly on my cheek my memory feels
The strong breath of repentant peasant knaves;
And now the haughty gates of palaces
Obsequious wheel their hinges to embrace me.—
The air is here with double perfume laden;
But while I revel in the fragrancy,
The scented peace I'll break, using the princess
To subjugate the woman, and the woman
To curb the princess. 'Tis a game of skill,
Where one side plays in light, the other in darkness.
So be it ever, that we may ever win.
And so it should be; for, the good of light—
Chief good of goods—would lie unfelt, unhatched,
Were there no darkness to illuminate.
And so it shall be by the might of craft;
The priestly head, like Ætna's at the dawn,
Blazing for aye in solitary light.

Enter Princess Matilda.
Matil.
Good father, I in haste have sent for you.
'Tis scarce an hour, the King was here, to urge
My instant marriage with his son, Prince Tancred.

Bern.
Prince Tancred is not now in Syracuse?

Matil.
The King expects him daily.

Bern.
This is sudden:
And has some sudden cause. Was the King earnest?

Matil.
Most earnest, even to anger.

Bern.
Ha! your highness
Rejected then—

Matil.
I only craved delay.
This crossed the King; surprised as well as vexed him.
He left me, saying, he would send you to me.
I fear I have done wrong. Now help me, father.
Your lesson 'twas that propped my falling courage,
And stayed me 'gainst the King's warm urgency.

Bern.
Princess, howe'er it seem, even to yourself,
I stand not hostile 'twixt the King and you.
The King is my liege lord; and my allegiance
Is paid as fully and as willingly
As by the readiest subject of the realm.
My holy office is to join, not sever:
I am a necessary link 'twixt you
And God; and that fine chain that we three make,
Can not be broken without loss to each,
Chiefly to you. On me, Heaven hath imposed
An awful trust—the keeping of your soul.

Princess, your conscience busies me more than my own.
Its safety is imperiled by this marriage.
The prince is tainted with the worst of crimes.

Matil.
In Heaven's name, what crime?

Bern.
With heresy.

Matil.
With heresy! so young: it is not so.
What proof have you? so modest, gentle, learned.

Bern.
Learning—except our sacred time-crowned lore—
Is but the Devil's trap to catch weak souls:
It turns men insolent and skeptical.

Matil.
And that Prince Tancred is not, can not be.

Bern.
You know the reputation of his friend,
Count Roger—

Matil.
Oh! I hate him.

Bern.
And with cause.
All Sicily should hate the infidel,
The irreverent, audacious questioner,
From whose unchecked espial naught is safe.
A libertine in thought, who would subject
To his bold sensuous gaze and unclean handling
All holiest secrets of the sky and earth.
An atheist so shameless, he would cite
Even Rome's divine authority to trial,
Deny the Pope or motion of the Sun.

Matil.
Is he so wicked?

Bern.
Poisoned to the core.

Matil.
The prince, good father, can not be so foul.

Bern.
Naught is so ductile as the growing mind.

'Tis shaped by what is nearest: from the moulds,
Open beside it in its liquid glow,
It takes its solid form. The prince's thought
Is Roger's thought engraft on Tancred's stem,
Whence it will draw sap for its bitterness.
As easily you may the flame untwist
That crackles on the hearth, and to each fagot
Its individual share therein allot,
As separate Prince Tancred's thought from Roger's;
So subtly are their thinkings interchanged.

Matil.
Father, to-morrow send the abbess to me.
[Exit Matilda.

Bernardo
alone.
If our affections be our direst foes—
As the Church teacheth, that doth never err—
No Paladin did ever with his blade
Do more protective duty to a princess
Than with few words I to Matilda now.
Passion to quench and overmaster, is,
To make life strong and pure.—Ha! is it so?
To crush is not to kill. The affections live,
Wounded but deathless, and their dripping blood
Begets upon the wronged despoiléd heart
Feelings that churn their venom as they crouch
Within the caverns of the memory.

Re-enter Matilda.
Matil.
Father, the King is quick and peremptory;
And royal purposes long entertained,

Are not as light renounced as children's toys.

Bern.
Your purposes are not less royal.

Matil.
For a woman
'Tis hard to stem the anger of a man.
And he a King.

Bern.
When the King rages, meet him
As princess: when the father urges, meet him
As woman, whose affections must be wooed,
Not bargained for. The King—I know his nature—
Has not a regal stubbornness of will.
Wilfully blind he is, like other fathers,
And sees not Tancred's sinfulness.

Matil.
Oh! father,
He's so unthinking, he may still be saved.

Bern.
Only through providential chastisement.
Would that he were unthinking. 'Tis his fault
To think too much—the worst fault he can have.
Princess, this Roger;—I have that to tell you,
Will make the frighted blood to flee your cheek
And gallop to its inward citadel.
It is a secret spied by spiritual vision—
The privilege of consecrated priests,
Who, through this heaven-imparted insight, wage
Safe war against demoniac practices.
Thy piety, so purged by sacrifice,
Is of a quality to bear the trust.
Torture thy spotless heart with this damned knowledge:—
Roger of Susa is the Devil's legate,

Commissioned from black Hell, with special office
To sap the prince and undo Sicily.

Matil.
Father, fail not to send the abbess to me.
[Exit Matilda.

Bernardo
alone.
Strong maladies demand strong remedies.
This dose will either kill or cure.—The Devil
Should have a brazen monument at Rome
High as St. Peter's. What were priests without him?—
Oh! the divinity there is in power,
That all things it can shape to instruments,
Sharpening invention to its brightest edge.
To govern, is to dance on life's top wave,
Erect in light, above the darkened crowd.
For us, who vow ourselves to mystic rites,
And thus do suicide on our dearest part,
Murdering sweet love, paternity and home,
Power is our single joy. But ah! 't is worth
The ail it costs, the dedicated priest
So high it lifts on pinnacles unapproachable,
Whence common men look prostrate and abased.
Power is the Almighty's attribute—and ours.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Hall in the Palace.
Enter Conrado and Barbara, meeting.
Barb.

Ha! Conrado; the very man I wished to meet. Butlers are then sometimes in the right place.

Con.

Who says I am ever in the wrong place?

Barb.

Nobody, that I know of.

Con.

I know of somebody that says so.

Barb.

Who?

Con.

Myself. For I say I am in the wrong place now. So, good-by, Mrs. Barbara.

Barb.

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.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Room in the Palace.
Count Roger alone.
Rog.
[taking off his fool's cap.]

Despised symbol of folly, how I honor thee! Badge of lowness, how I love thee! Sad will be the day when we part. Thou art a canopy against base uses: a flag of truce among enemies. Thou art a mitre, for thou consecratest me; a crown, for thou givest me power. Under thee I can speak more plainly than a bishop, I am freer than a king.—What a heels-over-head world it is, where contempt may be turned into a handle of strength, where a mask is the best wedge to gain entrance for truth, where deception becomes honest and folly wise. But for weeping, I could be the happiest man in the world by doing naught but laugh at it. But just now there is something higher to do. Our plot thrives: we must be armed for its crisis. The King is passionate though kindly, and Orontio loyal and stern. Their next act may be harsh. Already the people murmur at my banishment, which comes near to the prince; and if Tancred himself be touched, it would be easy, out of their

anger to make a rampart or a battery; for they value and love him. 'Tis so easy for a prince to be beloved. Was there ever a good one that was not? Let the powerful be godlike, and men become angels in their cheerful obedience. Here comes the King in haste; I'll stand apart.

Enter King, with Attendants.
King.

They defy, and would deceive me. They shall know me better. Go quickly [to an Attendant]
to father Bernardo: command him to our presence. The brazen priest! I'll melt his brass!— [To another Attendant.]
Summon Orontio; say the King would see him instantly. They shall learn that I can unmake them faster than I made them. The ingrates! To uphold my son and niece in their contumacy. The traitors! And they, Matilda and Tancred—am I not their father, uncle, king? Would they beard me? would they rebel? By Heaven! I'll tame them—I'll—

Rog.
[running forward.]

A drum, a drum! I beg your Majesty for a drum.

King.

Dost thou trifle, knave?

Rog.

Not I; for the King of Aragon gave me a drum!

King.

What for?

Rog.

To choke the ears of an angry man, that he might not hear himself speak; and so, save his conscience from nettles.

King.

Rogue, I'll have thee whipped.

Rog.

Will the lashes thou givest me heal the gashes thy tongue gives thyself?

King.

Francisco, I am betrayed: I want a friend.

Rog.

I never had but one, and he never betrayed me.

King.

A priceless friend! who was he?

Rog.

Myself.

King.
Thou art a wise fool.

Rog.

Was your Majesty ever in love?

King.

Ha! Know'st thou what thou dost? Francisco, thou wakest a bitter memory.

Rog.

False?

King.

Nay, nay: she was made of truth; by nature most royal, but not by blood. Oh! Francisco, Francisco! Wilt thou think it; oft did I curse my crown, that bade my heart cease its rapturous throbs, and when it could not, turned them to aches. Even now, at times, those days, darting across the waste of years, suddenly confront me, like ruined spirits upbraiding me for a wrong.

Rog.

A great wrong to both.

King.

I have expiated it.

Rog.

But half, if thou hast a son. One of the privileges of a father—the dearest—is, from his errors to distil wisdom for the bracing of his child; whitening for him with the meridian sun of experience, clouds such as darkened his own life's morning; and thus, by extracting from ancient pangs health for his child, to create for himself a joy deeper than any that Fate had crushed.

King.

How much thou remindest me of the good Nestor, Francisco. We'll talk further.—Here comes Orontio.

Enter Orontio.
It gives me pain, Orontio, to believe
That thou wouldst counterwork the purposes
Of thy liege sovereign, and countenance
The disobedience of the prince, my son.

Oron.
If that your Majesty's old servant could
So far unlearn the lesson of his duty,
A sterner punishment would he deserve
Than ever yet your lenient heart pronounced.

King.
The prince's wayward love for Rosalie
Is not unknown to you.

Oron.
On bare suspicion
Of aught so mutinous I've schooled my daughter,—
She not unapt to learn her loyal part.

King.
'Tis well, Orontio, well: I was too hasty.
Thy calm fidelity, I should have known,
Were proof against even an unduteous thought.
Tancred I shall forbid to see your daughter.
But he, being warm and wilful, may not heed
Such prohibition. Wherefore I commit
His disobedience to your watchfulness;
With order, that you punish with arrest
The breach of my command.

Oron.
'T is a harsh office
Your Majesty imposes.

King.
Be it so.
Harshness and duty are at times one act.

This act is mine: your warrant is from me.
Use that, and send him guarded to his chamber.
The rebel must be cropped before he blossom.

Rog.
Did your Majesty ever ride on a mule backward?

King.
No, fool.

Rog.
'T is an exercise I commend to your Majesty.

King.
Wherefor?

Rog.

Why, when the stubborn rascal kicks up behind he kicks into your face.

King.

What's that to the point?

Rog.

It's the best point whence to behold the effect of blows on a self-willed brute.

Enter Bernardo.
King.

Bernardo, what means this sudden passion of Matilda for a convent? The affections of a princess should obey her confessor; and thou didst give me to think the will of Matilda lay in thy hand.

Bern.

My presumption is rebuked by the princess's piety. Her will has been moulded by a higher than I am. Priests can do much: they are not omnipotent.

Rog.

That's a truth; and if his reverence has many such he undoes a proverb we have in Spain.

King.

What's that?

Rog.

That a priest's pate is as full of lies as a virtuous hen is of eggs at Easter.

Bern.

Profane trifler, keep thy buffooneries for occasions that fit them.

King.

Nay, Bernardo; if with our wit we can not parry the fool's thrusts, we must do it with our consciences.

Rog.

So that reverences that have neither conscience nor wit must keep out of the fool's way.

Bern.

I wonder that your Majesty takes delight in this fellow's unwashed insolence.

Rog.

If things were found only where they give delight, your face, sir priest, would be for ever fixed before a looking-glass.

Bern.

Scoundrel, but for this presence I would chastise thee.

Rog.

Lighten as you will, sir, you have but one quality of thunder—your face would turn cream.

King.

Enough, enough, Francisco.—Bernardo, priestly government having failed to rule the princess, royal shall be tried. Return hither two hours hence to witness the trial. Matilda and Tancred shall both be here. Orontio, bring hither Rosalie and Blanche, and let Alphonso, Osmond, and Count Manfred, be summoned. The welfare of these young people must be guarded against their ignorance and the crudity of their wills.

[Exeunt.
Rog.
[before going off.]

A few people grow wiser as they grow older; but kings are not of the number.

SCENE II.

A Room in Orontio's House.
Enter Rosalie.
Ros.
Why so much dread what I so much desire?
His coming I do fear; and came he not,
I'd rail at fear that it had banished him.
My weakness will be yet too strong for me.
Pride and my maiden modesty, where are ye?
Gone with the vaunted puissance of my will,—
Cold vapors drunk by the spring sun of love;
Leaving me pervious as the lake's white breast,
Defenceless bared to thirsty summer's beams,
Which quiver flaming through its mystic depths.
I am as helpless as an unweaned child.
Why not as innocent?—Come, helpful Truth,
Be thou my strength! Gird me against myself,
Against Self-Love's perfidious subtleties.
Away, low Fear! vile serf to Falsity.
Proud Boldness, come! brother to high-bred Candor.
Away, too, virgin Coyness! for to Truth
Even youngest Modesty can trust herself,
And wilt no blossom of her roseate wreath.

Enter Tancred.
Tanc.
Fair Rosalie, a dearer privilege
Than this I count not in my favored life.

Ros.
Your highness' generosity misnames

A privilege what is a simple right,
Won by your rank ere 'twas so by your kindness.

Tanc.
The breath that calls me kind proves you unkind.

Ros.
Then are my words blind traitors to their speaker.

Tanc.
Speaking of rank, which was not in your thought?

Ros.
Nor I, nor any one, nay, not yourself,
Can think of you disjointed from your rank.
Rank is a something grows into the blood:
You can not throw it off as 'twere a cloak.

Tanc.
If it do cumber me I can and will.

Ros.
You are so cumbered for the general good.
Unlike to low-born care, which drags down lower,
Your burthen lifts you on its loftiness,
Bearing along promoted multitudes.
Oh! 'tis divine, to sit upon a seat,
So sacred high, so founded in its might,
That, issuing thence, deeds are medicinal,
Blessing with ceaseless flood the fevered million,
And words outvoice Olympian thunderbolts.

Tanc.
You make me fall in love with royalty,
So grandly you conceive its righteous office.
The throne, till now a barren steep, looms up
A longed-for tufted island; while in thee,
Imagination kindling on itself,
Brandishes her torch and beckons thee to follow
To that proud seat thy words so deftly build,
There to enring thy temples with a crown,
The tribute of a heart grown rich through thee.

Ros.
Prince, your heart beats not for yourself alone:
Within it palpitates a Nation's life.
You are too large for private joy or grief,
Which melt before the sun of public needs.
Custom and fitness and paternal law,—
Whose triple strength holds duty in their thrall,—
O'errule a prince's destiny. For me
You are too high, and I for you too low.
Submit me to our lots—which are so blest,
That to complain of them were blasphemy—
And our first meeting let us look upon
As Fortune's spiteful trickery, wherewith
She takes delight to baffle mortal wills.

Tanc.
To mould one's destiny is nobler far
Than to inherit it; and to a will
Steadfast and crafty, Fortune proves a coward,
Who yields, then serves whom she had combated.
But better can I triumph over her,
Throwing away her sugared poisonous gifts,
And from the dangerous throne leaping down gladly
Into thy arms. For this there's precedent.
Often have kings descended from their seats;
Sometimes by willing resignation; oftener
By noiseless force of hostile circumstance,
Or harsh constraint of prosperous adversaries.
And shall not I—untasted yet the sweets
Of that great feast, whose thoughts have never swum
On royal hopes, committed as they are

To Nature's deeper joys, and calm pursuit
Of holy knowledge—shall not I descend,
When—like glad snowflakes that come swiftly dancing
From freezing heights, to melt them on the warm earth
And swell its fruitful currents—my descent
Shall be from frosty gloom to sunny joy.
But no: I will not down; thou shalt mount with me.
For nothing less than queen did Nature mould thee
Enter from behind, Orontio, with Guards.
In such pre-eminent proportions—

Oron.
Prince, I arrest you by the King's high order.

Tanc.
Arrest me! What new tyranny is this?

Oron.
You, Rosalie, withdraw into your chamber.

[Exit Rosalie.
Tanc.
Am I a common subject of the King,
That he thus outrages my will and person?

Oron.
Your highness knows me for the crown's sworn servant,
Who execute commands unquestioning.

Tanc.
I will obey. Lead on then to the prison.

Oron.
Your highness is no vulgar prisoner.
Your own apartment is your prison, till
His Majesty shall please thence to release you.

Tanc.
His Majesty may find it not so easy
To get me out as put me in. Lead on.

[Exit, guarded.
Orontio,
alone.
It is a fratricidal combat, bitter

And cruel, when duty and love conflict.
This is the roughest day that e'er I lived.—
Others must do the rest.—What a great light
Blazes above my house so suddenly!
Shall it be quenched? Man should not be so tempted.—
My daughter, my beautiful child! Thou art,
As never woman was, fit for a throne.—
God's will be done, not mine.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Hall in the Palace.
Enter Alphonso, Osmond, Manfred, severally.
Alph.

Heard you the news?

Osm.

Prince Tancred is arrested.

Alph.

Ay, in Orontio's house, by the King's order.

Manf.

For what?

Osm.

For disobedience to the King.

Alph.

And love for Rosalie. The King desires his marriage with Matilda. He refuses, and seeking interview with Rosalie, was by her father, in her presence, arrested.

Manf.

Have you been summoned hither by the king?

Alph.

I have.

Osm.

And so have I.

Manf.

What may this mean?

Alph.

We soon shall know; here comes his majesty.

Enter King, Chamberlain, Attendants, Roger, as clown, on one side; on the other, Orontio, Rosalie, Blanche, Bernardo.
King.

Chamberlain, where is the princess?

Cham.

This letter, addressed to your majesty, just now delivered into my hands, is from her highness.

King.

Read it, Orontio.

Oron.
[Reads.]

“I beseech the King to forgive me: I beseech my father to forgive me. The hand of God has guided my blind footsteps, and led me to the convent of St. Cecilia as my only home on earth.

“Matilda.”

King.

Poor child! too good art thou to need forgiveness of guilty man. Well; it may be thou hast done the best for thyself. Thou wast too guileless for this pitfall of a world.— [A tumult heard without.]
What is that noise?

Cham.
[Coming from the window.]

The people, sire demand that the prince be liberated.

King.

Where is the prince? He should be here.

An Att.

Sire, he refuses to leave his room.

King.

Command him in our name. [Exit Attendant.
[Tumult increases.]
Where is the captain of the guard? Enter Captain.
Captain, what means this mob at the very gates of the Palace?

Capt.

Your majesty, it is no common mob. The people are assembled in a multitude of many thousands.

Re-Enter Attendant.
Att.

Sire, I delivered your command to the prince. His highness bids me dutifully say to your Majesty, that he prays you to give him his liberty. Here he would be no freer than in his chamber; and so he refuses to quit it.

King.

Besieged in our palace by our people, and our son claiming to be absolved from our rule. Be it so. Tell Prince Tancred he shall be free to do, go, speak, act, as he in his ripe wisdom shall choose. [Exit Attendant.]
Captain, throw open the portals of the Palace to the populace, and bid the new sovereign take possession. [Exit Captain.]
Francisco, we will teach you in Sicily things that you would never have learnt in Spain.

Rog.

I am glad, sire, to profit so much by travel. Spain is a country wherein one learns never a new thing.

Re-Enter Captain.
Capt.

The people cry, “Long life to the King,” and are dispersing.

Enter Tancred, and kneels before the King.
King.

Nay, Tancred, rise. For a man so free as you now are, this obeisance is unbecoming.

Tanc.
[Rising.]

I pray your Majesty, mock me not. More than ever I am your dutiful son and subject. The liberty you have given me I would use within the sacred bounds of right; seeking through it to fill more fruitfully the measures of my life; wronging no man, least of all your Majesty. [He advances to Rosalie, and taking her hand, says to Orontio,

who stands next to her]
have I your permission? [Orontio with dignity and feeling, acquiesces without words. Tancred then returns with Rosalie to the King, and, both kneeling before him, says:]
Father, we ask thy benediction.

King.
[With emotion.]

my blessing on you both. Rise up, my daughter. [They rise.]

Tanc.

To crown this day's great happiness, I have one more petition to your majesty.

King.

'Tis granted ere 't is named.

Tanc.

The recall of my friend, Count Roger.

King.

Herald, proclaim the pardon and recall from banishment of Count Roger of Susa.

Tanc.

First, I crave of your Majesty and these gentlemen forgiveness to the count for any and all wrongs real or imagined up to this hour, by him committed against any one of them.

All.

Granted most fully.

Herald.

Know all men, that by his Majesty's decree—

Rog.

Speak louder; so that should the count happen to be in Germany, he may hear you.

[Exit.
Herald.

Know all men, that by his Majesty's decree, Count Roger of Susa is hereby recalled from banishment.

King.

Orontio—my son choosing for himself has chosen so well—trust the discretion of your niece to do the same.

Oron.

Sire, I have ever found her trustworthy, and readily yield her this liberty.

King.

Come, Blanche; your husband shall be a duke: name him.

Blan.

Your Majesty does not jest?

King.

Nay, I pledge to you my royal word.

Blan.

Father—

Oron.

Good Blanche, choose: thy choice shall be mine.

Blan.

I choose Francisco.

King, Orontio, and Others.

The clown!

Blan.

The same.

King.

He is Duke Francisco.

Rog.
[Running in.]

Here I am, your Majesty. [Kneels.]
[As the King gazes at him, he takes off the fool's cap.]

King and Others.

Count Roger!

Rog.

Who will not rise till he has your Majesty's forgiveness.

King.

That Count Roger shall never have: it is for the duke. Rise up, Duke Roger. [Roger rises.]
Who but yourself could have played us so shrewd a trick?

Rog.

What king but your Majesty would have forgiven it so generously?

King.

This ends very like a comedy, where, albeit the young have their own way, things turn out happily. Well, Orontio, let us take revenge, in the wish, that their children may do as well.

Rog.

We all have cause to be satisfied:—your Majesty, in that the prince your son is shown to have a heart that beats healthily, a manly will—the prime virtue in a ruler—and qualities that win the love of the people, wherein lies the strength of a kingdom;—you, Orontio, that having given a life of high labor to the service of the crown, the crown shall pass to the heirs of your blood, and thus your fidelity as parent

and minister receive a truly regal recompense;—you, Alphonso, that not the wills of others have bound you in those bonds which are only then pure when entered into spontaneously; —you, noble Osmond, that you have not exchanged the tried comforts of single freedom for the untried blessings of yokedom, and that you are still the conspicuous chief of bachelors, instead of being merged in the common herd of the married.

Osm.

I like the phrases “herd” and “yokedom.”

Rog.

I perceive you are already comforted;—for you, Count Manfred, think of the maidens of Palermo, and to what rejoicing they will give themselves when you return to them unmarried;—for me, my tongue, though, as you perceive, not tied by modesty, has no craft to speak my contentment.—It remains but that you be satisfied; [to the Audience.]

And that you will be, if our Play
Has waked your better thought,
And then illumed it with the ray
In the calm glow of beauty wrought.
It is the Poet's hallowed part,
So regally to speak the truth,
That it shall stir the ready heart,
Like morning sunbeam sleeping youth.
His peerless office is, to enrich
The mind with its own beauties,
Tuning its chords to the high pitch
Of sweet ideal duties.

[Exeunt.