University of Virginia Library

1. [FIRST PART.]

Ippolito.
Now all the people follow the procession
Here may I walk alone, and let my spirits
Enjoy the coolness of these quiet aisles.
Surely no air is stirring; every step
Tires me; the columns shake, the ceiling fleets,
The floor beneath me slopes, the altar rises.
Stay! here she stept: what grace! what harmony!
It seem'd that every accent, every note
Of all the choral music, breath'd from her:
From her celestial airiness of form
I could have fancied purer light descended.
Between the pillars, close and wearying,
I watcht her as she went: I had rusht on;
It was too late; yet, when I stopt, I thought
I stopt full soon: I cried, Is she not there?
She had been: I had seen her shadow burst
The sunbeam as she parted: a strange sound,
A sound that stupified and not aroused me,
Fill'd all my senses: such was never felt
Save when the sword-girt Angel struck the gate,
And Paradise wail'd loud and closed for ever.
She should return; the hour is past away.
How can I bear to see her (yet I will)
Springing, she fondly thinks, to meet the man
I most abhor, my father's base-born son,
Ferrante!

Rosalba
(entering).
What! I called him? in my haste
To languish at his beauty, to weigh down
His eyelids with my lips for gazing on me:
Surely I spoke the name, and knew it not
Until it bounded back and smote me so!

Ippolito.
Curses upon them both! [Advancing toward her.

Welcome, sweet lady!

Rosalba.
Lord Cardinal! you here? and unattended?

Ippolito.
We wait the happy lover, do we not?

Rosalba.
Ferrante then betrayed the secret to you!
And are you come to honour with your presence . .

Ippolito.
Has the Duke sign'd the contract?

Rosalba.
For what bride?
Ferrante writes Ferrante plain enough;
And I do think, altho' I once or twice
Have written it instead of mine, at last
I am grown steadier, and could write Rosalba.

Ippolito.
Sport not with one your charms have cast too low.

Rosalba.
Sport not with one your hand would raise too high.

Ippolito.
Again that taunt! the time may come, Rosalba,
When I could sanctify the blissful state
I have aspired to.

Rosalba.
Am not I mere ice?
Show not I girlish forwardness, the fears
Of infancy, the scruples of old age?
Have not you said so? and said more . . you hate them?
How could you bear me, or what wish from me?

Ippolito.
That which another will not long retain.

Rosalba.
You know him little and me less.

Ippolito.
I know
Inconstancy in him.

Rosalba.
And what in me?

Ippolito.
Intolerance for his betters.

Rosalba.
Ignorance,
But not intolerance of them, is my fault.

Ippolito.
No?

Rosalba.
Call it thus, and cast it on the rest.

Ippolito.
Some are there whose close vision sees but one
In the whole world, and would not see another
For the whole world, were that one out of it.

Rosalba.
Are there some such? O may they be my friends!
O how, before I know them, I do love them!

Ippolito.
After no strife, no censure, no complaint,
Have not your tears been seen, when you have left him,
Thro' tediousness, distaste, dislike, and grief
(Ingenuous minds must feel it, and may own it)
That love, so rashly promist, would retire,
Hating exaction, circumvention, bonds?

Rosalba.
Such grief is yet unknown to me. I know
All tears are not for sorrow: many swell
In the warm depths of gratitude and bliss;
But precious over all are those that hang
And tremble at the tale of generous deeds.
These he relates when he might talk, as you do,
Of passion: but he sees my heart, he finds
What fragrance most refreshes it.
How high,
O Heaven! must that man be, who loves, and who
Would still raise others higher than himself
To interest his beloved!
All my soul
Is but one drop from his, and into his
Falls, as earth's dew falls into earth again.

Ippolito.
Yet would it not be wise to trust a friend
Able to counsel in extremes and straits?

Rosalba.
Is it not wise in darkness and in storm
To trust the wave that lashes us, and pray
Its guidance on the rocks whereto it tends?
I have my guide, Lord Cardinal! he alone
Is ship and pilot to me, sea and star:
Counsel from others, knowing him, would be
Like worship of false gods; in me no less
Than profanation and apostacy.

Ippolito.
We may retire; he comes not here to-day.

Rosalba.
Then will I not retire, but lay my head
Upon the feet of any pitying saint
Until he comes, altho' it be to-morrow.

Ippolito.
To-morrow he may fail: the sovran will
By rescript has detained and must delay him.

Rosalba.
Lead, lead me to Ferrante.

Ippolito.
Were I worthy.

Rosalba.
Proud cruel man! that bitter sneer bodes ill.
May not I see him?

Ippolito.
He may not see you.

Rosalba.
O let him! well my memory can supply
His beauteous image; I can live on love
Saturate, like bees with honey, long drear days;
He must see me, or cannot rest; I can.