University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

DURAZZO
, MENTEVOLE.
Is he not like to Claudio?

MENTEVOLE.
Rather say,
Is't not himself, as ere the tomb receiv'd him?
But dear my lord, by all that charm'd your youth,
Forgive me, though I seem importunate:
O, win your daughter to accept my vows;
For I have lov'd to such a mad excess,
So stor'd up every thought of happiness
In that fond hope, should I prove bankrupt there,
I dare not look to earth or Heaven for comfort.

DURAZZO.
Mentevole, I doubt not of your love;
My daughter too believes it; a feign'd passion
Speaks not your fervent language:—

MENTEVOLE.
A feign'd passion!
Thus hear me swear—

DURAZZO.
Oaths are unnecessary.
My tongue has not been niggard of your praise;
I've tried entreaties too. A harsh command,
Heard with repugnancy, that she should love,
Because her anxious father deems it meet,
Or you would have it so, might change at once
The indifference you complain of to aversion.
Thus the calm lake that slept at peace before,
Turns a strong tide, and sets against your wishes.

MENTEVOLE.
O, the degrees, my lord, are infinite,
Between a harsh command, and such persuasion
As every day the fondest parents use,
In tender strife with a coy maid's reluctance.
Were I to plead as a feed advocate,
Even for a scanty rood of barren earth,
I should account me faithless to my charge,
My rhetorick o'erpriz'd at one poor ducat,
Did I neglect a gloss, or argument,
Might sway the unwilling judge to my decision.

DURAZZO.
Instruct me to speed better. I shall thank you.

MENTEVOLE.
My words, my action, should have life and grace;
I'd probe his reason, try his every humour,
Wind to his inmost soul, grow to his eye,
Watch where impression stole upon his sense;
There ply my strength, where most I found him weak,
Nor cease to urge till I had conquer'd him.

DURAZZO.
Passion thus blindfold sees no obstacle.
Young man, young man, be calm a while, and hear me.

MENTEVOLE.
Yet tell me not, my suit is desperate;
Sooth, though you cannot heal; and I will listen,
As if I liv'd by every sound you utter'd,
And death and inattention were the same.

DURAZZO.
You knew long since, to see my daughter wedded,
Without a variance 'twixt her choice and mine,
Was my prime wish. Malignant destiny
Marr'd that fair prospect. The assassin's stab
Had almost pierc'd with one pernicious stroke
Two faithful breasts. Anguish unutterable
On her soft frame lay'd such a deadly grasp,
Too long I trembled for her life and reason.

MENTEVOLE.
Spare me, my lord, O spare me the remembrance;
It harrows me too deeply.

DURAZZO.
Can you question,
I wish to see her unavailing sorrow
Chang'd to gay festivals, and bridal joy?
Or think you, that supinely I can view
(Thus childless, but in her,) my house's honours,
My large estates, sunk in a virgin's tomb,
Or scatter'd 'mongst remote and thankless kindred,
When, by alliance with your well-match'd love,
Such near and natural heirs may spring to bless me?

MENTEVOLE.
Why, grant it all, yet how have I prevail'd?
My presence she endures, for you desir'd it;
Yet, if the only theme can touch me nearly,
But trembles from my tongue, her cheek turns pale;
Her blood runs back, as mustering to her heart,
To fortify the access more strong against me.
I pity him, who thinks he has known distress,
And never felt the pang of hopeless love:
The consummation of all other ills
Is light and trivial to that misery.

DURAZZO.
Time may do much, nor shall my aid be wanting.
Urge me no more, nor doubt me. Your kind sister,
Olympia, the companion she holds dear,
May unobserv'd watch every soft approach,
And steal a lover's image on her fancy.
But lo, she comes. Farewel! I go to serve you.
[Exit Durazzo.