University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

Public Walk.
Arezzi and Cimbelli.
CIMBELLI.
I blame you not—we are what nature makes us.
The costliest of her vessels prove so fine
They burst in seasoning: more she forms of clay;
Mere dirt, and these last long. In men like you,
The print which Fancy leaves to mark her chosen
Shines, from the surface, through: thus love—to most
No more than flushes in the dawn of youth,
A sort of rosy-color'd brief crepuscule,
Which fades before the sun is up—to you
Becomes the daylight of the soul, and lasts
Till life itself goes out.—Even I, Cimbelli,
Could fast, and watch, and weep, and fight, and die,
For one fair woman, if there were no more—
But while the earth feeds two, and both are single,
Neither shall grieve me long.

AREZZI.
You never loved,
Yet own Love's power—wiser in this than most—
You do not reason with the crazed.

CIMBELLI.
I might;
But some men seem predestinated fools,
With sense enough to know they are. I had
A brother of this kind, in whom harsh Nature
Forced all reluctant qualities to meet.
Haughty he was, yet tender—just, though froward,
Most pitiful, most stern—a giant in wrath,
A child in love and mercy. All his soul
Was given to one who scorned it. I have seen
Impatient anguish watch that pale cold brow—
For ever gracious toward inferior fools,
Toward him unchangeable—till shame and pride
Burst and dissolved in tears. The pitiless smile
Gave life again to both—so passion rose—
Like him that strove with Hercules of old,—
In two-fold vigor from the dust. Now see
How strange a kind of two-legg'd thing is this
Which stands so totteringly, its own hard sighs
Can make it rock and stagger!—a little breath,
And that most fragrant, from a little mouth,
Not blown in wrath, but peaceful though unkind;
Nay less, a look—and that without a frown,
A blank and casual look, composed and heedless,
Can roll it bottom upwards! Mercy upon us!

AREZZI.
Most that endure, repine: hast ever heard
Such groans from me?

CIMBELLI.
Why no—you keep them down
As prudent masters rap their scholars' pates,
Commuting cries for tears. Your loveship sits
Like Æolus struggling with his subject winds,—
A sceptred king, but sore perplexed to rule.

AREZZI.
What was this brother's fortune?

CIMBELLI.
Common enough.
Be such an one as he, and live as he did
To watch his rivals laugh, hear gossips prattle,
How fond the bride, and late she lies in bed,
And when they look for issue.

AREZZI.
Hold—Cimbelli!
O! senseless, merciless, as thou art—find out
Some other way than this to make me mad.
These scorpions did not sleep before—pray go—
Let us not meet again.

CIMBELLI.
Poor babe! dear innocent!

AREZZI.
What nature wants in manhood—let the will
Excuse thus far—Though both are weak—Heaven knows!
One is not yet subdued. Wouldst prove me fool?
Convince the fool of baseness?—I am confessed
A fool half mad—a slave quite miserable:
Abject, indeed, and helpless! but I feel
One passion of a man still left—his shame.

CIMBELLI.
Set Shame to buffet Love—he is the youngest,
And almost always follows hard at hand.

AREZZI.
This I can help, Cimbelli—I will not see
Another in my place. She has been mine—
Her looks, her thoughts, affections, wishes, tears—
I earned them all—not easily, as the price
Of short and pleasant service—years have flown
In doubt, in awe, in hope, almost in worship—
Till love, though pure, grew sinful. She has been
Single in earth to me—and let me own
Far oftener in my thoughts than Heaven. These eyes
Have gazed while sickness made its mark for death,
And part belonged to each!—I will not see
That which I had, transferred.

CIMBELLI.
Now, what dost swear by?

AREZZI.
The only thing still left me—it is enough—
By all I feel of misery!

CIMBELLI.
You must learn
Either to do or suffer—be brave or patient—
Blow out Love's torch with sighs, or act the man
And take what once was given you. Let us walk.

[Exeunt.