University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—A Street in Florence a little before Daybreak.
Enter Alphonzo.
Al.
Once more in Florence!—to my very Soul
So native now—though stranger to my birth!—
My Soul—my Soul—was born here!—since 'twas here
Love gave me his delicious rapturous Life—
And poured the deep wine of his passionate power
Through all my kindling and exulting veins!—
Costanza!—hast thou ever thought of me—
Lady of all my Love and Life and Hope!—
Since last thy looks shot light through my rapt being?—
It is an hour of tranced tranquillity,
And well consorts with these affectionate thoughts
That seem to fill all Earth—as Stars—the Heaven.
I am full early forth!—since these fair orbs,
Bright Angels visible, of the Heavens above us,
Are yet so beautiful in the unsunned blue!—
Morning!—thou'rt but a Deicide!—and giv'st
A death-blow to those throned calm-looking Gods!—
That each might seem the full-realmed Lord of Space!—
But no!—they live, and mock thy little might—
Thy dazzlery's our Darkness!—we are frail,
And find one World to lose ten thousand thus!—
Too troubled with one Splendour to see more!—
The Sun is as a Wall of Fire built up
Between us and these Rivals of his Reign!
His Maker's proud misrepresentative!—
Most insufficient mirror, still he shines!—
The Heavenly Hypocrite!—he feigns to be
The Monarch-Sphere in Solitary State—
And we, as such, do recognize him still—
Blinded to myriads by his single beam—
He, glorying, throws his burning blazing shield
O'er his refulgent comrades of the skies,
And these weak arrows of our eyes in vain
Would reach their royalties of radiance then!—
Frail arrows!—they glance back—at once—o'ercome—
From that dread shield, magnificent, of thine!—
Bright Warrior, combating Night's shadowy Hosts,
And covering thus Light's Legions with thy Light—
Thou shin'st!—the Stars fade off like o'erblown flowers!—
Little we see of Thee—and nought of Them!—
Our eyes can brook not thine o'erpowering blaze—
And for that blaze, can mark not their merged pomp—
We are so little—and so limited!—
So lost in poverty and powerlessness!—
Lord of all Suns and Systems!—Maker!—Thus—
Thou show'st thy treasures but to snatch them back—
To make us feel how weak, how vile we are!—
So dost thou darken us with dazzling light—
As it may be, perchance—Almightiest Sire!—
When all Eternity comes rushing on
Far through the Soul, (which wrestles and which strives,
Wavering in that most fiery struggle's pangs,)
Thou thus destroy'st with Life's intenseness even!—
Destroy'st but to revive!—o'erthrow'st—to raise!—
A pause.
Well! we are cabinned—circumscribed—controulled—
But yet our thoughts burst every bound and bar!—
The while all, all the unseen Immensity,
Swells at our Souls—and mingles with the Mind!—
Since Oh! so proud our high aspirings are,
We make the Ungazed-on Universe our own,
Through Mind's great Majesties of Consciousness!—
The Sun is but a step to lead our thoughts
Past all he lighteth—or his comrades light—
To heavenlier Systems, and far higher states—
And I am One Ambition!—yet, I trust,
Beginning not nor ending here, in Self—
I feel I am ambitious for mankind!—
Ambitious for my race—my State—my World!—
I would acquire the power to aid, and raise—
Enlighten—benefit—my fellow-beings—
This soaring feeling, ardent and supreme,
Is different from the gross ambition born
Of sinful selfishness—as light from darkness!—
As this fair morn that grows and glows fast round me
From Midnight's cloudliest depths!—A stir of steps!
The Citizens begin their busy rounds—
The day hath made swift strides—the blessed sight
Of my sweet Florence shines into my Soul,
Bright as the uprising Sun that comes to light it!—
To the late Banished thou'rt more beautiful—
More bright than ever—City of my choice!— (A pause.)

Who comes!—by heaven 'tis that obsequious knave,
That prying varlet, Millaflores!—he—
Who was the first to turn his back on me,
When Fortune seemed to do so—and to help
A drowning man to sink!—and now he comes,
His face all spread with smiles of welcome, since
He hears the Prince's favour hath recalled me!—

Enter Millaflores.
Milla.
Ten thousand welcomes back to Florence!—Sir!—
Signor Algarves!—if that be the name
Still honoured by your bearing it!—but late
Glad rumours of a title new bestowed
On you most worthily, have reached our ears,
Delighting us—as proving well, how just
The Duke's appreciation of your worth—
I pray you to inform me if 'tis true!—

Al.
Indeed 'tis not, Sir!—and the Duke hath shown
His knowledge of me better far by not
Glossing my merits—if I have such—o'er,
With most unnecessary flourish;—such,
May give some seeming value unto that
Which hath no worth, but unto that which hath
Can add not!—gild dull wood—but never frame
The diamond round with glass!—Excuse me, Sir,
I have important business.

Milla.
(aside.)
Prouder far
Than Lucifer—as ever!—Yet I pray
Delay one moment—tell me, have you yet
Passed to the royal presence?—

Al.
I have not.

Milla.
Beseech you when you do, to tell the Prince
How warm a friend of yours I have shown myself—
That I was here the first to give you greeting,
And welcome back to Florence!—

Al.
As you were
The first to take your leave of me and give
“God speed ye!”—when from Florence I was forced
To make unwilling way,—good Marquess!—come!—
Give me plain dealing—such will I give thee—
I love untortuous singleheartedness—
Simplicity and blunt straight-forwardness,
Loathe laboured, labyrinthine tricks of speech—
And sleights of tongue—whate'er my streights may be—
I ne'er will build a golden bridge of words
To'scape from any fears or harms!—No! no!—
Plain deeds love I!—the better still, the plainer!—
I know that you mislike me!—and I know
You were right glad to see me in disgrace!—
How can it be then it should give you joy
To see me thus returned to favour?—

Milla.
Nay!—
Thou dost me grievous wrong—great wrong indeed.
When thou wert in disgrace, of course, 'twas not
My business then to give thee countenance—no!
I trust I know my duties better than
To set myself 'gainst His good Highness' pleasure—
It had been gross ill-manners—sheer bad taste—
Yourself would surely have despised me for't!—
It were an insult to the world to stand
'Gainst its known prejudices or proscriptions!—
Could you respect in any way a Friend
Who made the World his foe?—in mine own heart
I felt your innocence, but what of that?—
Innocence is as nothing in itself!—
Your greatest guilt is to be guilty deemed!—
And the most flagrant crime man can commit
Is to incur displeasure 'gainst him—there—
E'en at head quarters—inexcusable!—
Most fatally flagitious!—for the rest,
I bear no personal ill-will to you!—
But do assure you o'er and o'er again—
Am most delighted to show homage now—
To one whom others are on terms with!—thus
Would stick at nothing to advance your interests—
Through fire and flood would for your welfare go—
Serve in all ways that lie within my power,—
And help you to revenge yourself on those
You may suspect did blacken your fair fame,
And cast aspersions on you—am I not
Your most devoted humble servant?—mark!—
I bowed to you before you noticed me—
Stood cap in hand five minutes till I caught
Your gracious eye—gave you such salutations
As I might give unto a brother peer!—
Words quotha!—Saints in Heaven! are these not deeds,
And weighty deeds too?—

Al.
Nay! leave fooling, prithee!—
Lord Marquess!— (Aside.)
The preposterous popinjay!—
The affected ape!— (Aloud.)
This courtly strain to me
Is Hebrew!—I can construe not its meaning,
Nor wish to fathom your philosophy.
I do entreat you—let me lack awhile
Your honourable Company—I wait
A friend here on grave business now!—

Milla.
I go!—
Immeasurably delighted to behold
Thus, the ornament of Florence once again!—
Burthened with news too, to delight all others—
Your health—well-doing—and your safe return!—
I pray you keep me in your kind esteem!—
(Aside.)
Now have I thrown away in folly thus,
Just three and thirty smiles of smirking sort—
Wrinklings and workings of this goodly face—
Warpings and wrigglings of this graceful form—
Innumerable fair bows and bends—and lies—
The number of the words I uttered—much
I fear 'tis to no purpose!—yet it may—
It yet, perhaps, may turn to good account!—

[Exit with a low bow.
Al.
His presence hath aroused profound disgust!—
Pshaw!—I will think not on the human reptile!—
Would that my Friend were come, that I might hear
News of my loved Costanza!—for last night
Our hurried conference left no time to touch
On that dear subject.—Love hath well kept pace
With mine Ambition!—as that nobly doth—
With all that stirreth, kindleth, and ascendeth!—
My thread of thought late broken—let me bind!—
Yet—yet, the proud hope bears me on, to be
As is the crowned palm 'midst all lesser trees!—
To be a glory to my time and clime—
Ocean—'midst thousand swelling streams of Soul!—
Sun—'midst surrounding Stars of fervent Life!—
Alp—'mongst the mountains of Heaven-piercing minds—
This—this is my ambition—this my Hope!—
Yet—scarce thus solitarily to reign
For ever!—No!—but to raise others up
To mine own height!—and higher—higher still—
Bequeathing so to all Posterity—
A Legacy of loftiness!—I would
Through all things make it my one solemn aim,
To raise and dignify Mortality!—
Would still with this large hope exultant fired,
Commence the noblest undertakings, still
That others might complete them!—reap—receive—
Their blessed benefits, and bask in all
The full light of the Immeasurable Success!—
I fain would see my fellows cull the fruit
Of those fair trees that I shall plant—and train—
And climb by those proud steps that I shall build!—
This is Ambition worthy to keep pace
With the clear heavenly-mindedness of Love—
For it is Love!—the largest—and the fullest!—
Embracing all Creation in its scope!—
Enriching all things living—evermore!—
But how accomplish my transcendant aims!—
Men will not e'en believe in such a mood—
Of high, disinterested, and fervent feeling!—
St!—steps approach!—it is my friend at last.
Enter Guicciardini.
Thrice welcome—Brother of my heart!—Dost bear
Good tidings!—Yes!—they are written on thy brow!

Gui.
Aye! thou art to have an audience of the Duke,
Dear Friend, at noon—and I rejoice to add,
Our honoured Master speaks of you with more
Than even his wonted graciousness—and dwells
With much delight upon the prospect thus,
Of soon beholding you:—but yesternight
He said to Cesare he doubted not
You could at once most fully clear yourself
From every villainous imputation now;
But added, that was needless, since himself
Was of your perfect innocence convinced—
Then blamed himself even bitterly, that he
Had ever lent an ear to those who sought
To poison friendship with Suspicion's venom!—
Be in the Palace-Vestibule at noon!—

Al.
Most gladly—and these tidings, well believe,
Are dear and welcome to my long-grieved Soul,
As draughts in deserts to the thirst-scorched pilgrim!—
But say—hast thou no other tidings?—none
Connected with a subject dearer still?—
Thou surely knowest—thou must know, what I fain
Would hear, yet hardly dare to ask!—

Gui.
'Tis true!
Though yet thou hast never openly discoursed
With me on that dear subject, I have long
Gazed on thy Soul, and its deep secret read!—
'Tis a most chrystal and most lucid shrine,
That generous Soul—and can but ill conceal!—
Why! all thy thoughts are bright transparencies,
And all thy Being beams and burns with truth!—
Thou lov'st Costanza!—

Al.
Blessings on thy tongue—
For these sweet sounds—all blessings!—Well hast thou
Mine whole Soul spoken in those few rich words!
Thou hold'st the mirror up unto my Heart!—
And Oh! how beautiful that finds itself—
Robed in the lustres of this glorious love!—
And hast no tidings of her?—speak—at least—
Tell me she loves no other!—holds her health!—
Say, she doth move right queenly as her wont—
Blooms in the pride of all her loveliness!—
Keeps the sweet silv'ry clearness of her voice?—
Tell me she seems to all men as to me—
The glory and the wonder of the world!—
Still something saddened—something changed—not so!—
Yet something showing of an inward change—
Speaking of soft regrets while I was far.

Gui.
A truce to questions and such varying ones—
So full of love's obscure perplexities—
All that I know is little—she hath scarce
Appeared in public since you left the place—
But when she hath, I ever have remarked
That she looked paler—graver, than before!—
I saw her last yestreen, for five brief minutes.

Al.
How!—what!—yestreen!—Oh! how I envy thee!—
Her Uncle!—what of him?—he hates me much—
And wishes—I am well convinced—his niece
Should marry with Lorenzo!—me he hates,
For my ambition clashing with his own—
As he imagines—though it doth not thus!—
But he abhors me bitterly!—'tis strange—
And yet scarce strange—because I surely know
The clue that guides me right unto the cause!—
My Mother—wherefore she hath ne'er explained—
Commanded me on my arrival here,
(Under the seal of secresy I speak,)
To thwart the Count in various aims and schemes.
My Mother's words are laws unto my will—
And should be so!—for her exceeding love
Hath ofttimes left me marvelling at its might!—
'Tis all but madness of idolatry!—
It weighs her down as 'twere a very sorrow!—
Be certain I obeyed her slightest wish,
Laid out my conduct by her plan prescribed,
And baulked the Count some several times—alas!—
Succeeding in the schemes wherein he failed;
I fear he ne'er will sanction now my suit—
His temper is resentful, harsh and stern;—
I have but little hope!—

Gui.
Take heart!—dear Friend!—
Fear not the Count!—the gracious Duke designs
To shower fresh honours on you—and to show
In every way that lieth in his power
Your reinstatement in his favour now—
To him confide your love for fair Costanza,—
He will compel her uncle to consent—
His vain reluctance crush—and crown your hopes!

Al.
No! Guicciardini!—well I know—too well—
Costanza never would be happy—never—
If her loved Uncle did not freely give
His full consent and cordial countenance
Unto our nuptials—and I could not be—
I never could be happy were She not so!
I would not throw a shadow o'er that Heart—
I would not see a cloud upon my Heaven!—
No!—Guicciardini—No!—this must not be!—
'Twould kill our happiness in grasping it!—
As children crush the Summer's rainbowed Queen—
The o'er-blazoned Butterfly—by snatching sharply—
In their too rash and inconsiderate grasp!—
I may not do it!—Guicciardini!—NO!
But oh! my Friend, my Friend!—must I indeed
Resign my hopes of her, which even to build,
Made me too heavenly-happy!—She is all
Angels might wish in new-ascended Spirits!—
Too beautiful for Earth—too young for Heaven!
The very Tuscan on her lips of love—
Doth languish sweetly to a tenderer music—
Oh! she is a Creation! Beauty ne'er
Was made before her making!—Man but dreamed
What Nature had designed, but ne'er performed—
Till Beauty sprang like Light upon the scene,
And on the Sight and Soul, in her rare Form,
And taught the Sun to shine!—

Gui.
Nay! spare me! spare!—
A Lover's rhapsodies are most enchanting—
Delightful—wise—perspicuous—to himself—
But apt on other's ears to fall too flat—
And prove a little puzzling!—I agree
In all that you observed some short time back
While gleamed a lucid interval;—and now
Come with me homewards—for the streets I doubt
Will soon be thronged, and for your private ear
I have revealments relative to all
That passed, ere your most cruel banishment
From this fair City—not from our true loves!—
I can enlighten you on various points—
And show you whom to trust, and whom to shun—
A painful knowledge, but a needful, too—
The latter much preponderating still!—
It is a strange wild world—but such as 'tis,
We must contrive to live in it!—

Al.
Lead on!—

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—A Room in the Marchese di Millaflores' Palace.
Millaflores, Crescenzi, and Diodati discovered.
Diodati.
Ha! ha! rare sport!—well, Marquess! we but came
To ask you sage advice upon this point—
And since you think the Duke would be displeased
At our appearing at the Festa clad
In masquerading dress, we will refrain;
You are the pink of courtiers, and know best!—
For my part, I confess, I wished to speak
Some few home-truths to those whom I well know
Had injured secretly my noble Friend,
The young Algarves—and, you know, 'tis still
Permitted under sanction of the mask,
To introduce the unfashionable guest—
And stranger to the Court—called Truth!—

Milla.
Indeed,
I beg you will not say I gave advice—
I counselled nothing—and but just remarked
It might be inconvenient—might occasion—
'Twere possible, some slight unpleasantness—
I said, I could not say—'twere sage or right—
And said, I would not say 'twere otherwise.

Cres.
Oh!—yes!—dear Marquess! thou wert most discreet,
But then thou art such an Oracle—thou know'st!—
The obscurest hints from thee we snatch and hoard
Most carefully—most curiously do weigh!—
Well! we have now given up the plan—but tell me—
Think you not with us, 'twas a sinful shame,
That men who all affected to esteem him,—
To whom in his hey-day of favour, he
But showed all kindness and cordiality,
Should have together plotted, in so base,
So villainously base and coldly cruel
A manner, to destroy, and blight, and crush
The Saviour of their Sovereign's honoured life!
To whom from that same unforgotten hour,
When he, at great self risk did guard his Prince—
That gracious Sovereign was of course placed under
Such weighty obligations!—

Milla.
As to that,
I ne'er could see the obligations yet!—

Dio.
Thou know'st the fact?

Milla.
The fact, I know, 'tis true;
I well remember this same youth contrived
Once on a time, and in a certain Battle,
To ward a certain weapon from some part
Of the Duke's person—he, of course, averred
A vital part—but he was no Chirurgeon!—
And ill could calculate, it seems to me,
The chances of the thrust!—

Cres.
Well!—let that pass!—
The Duke believed he owed his life to him—
And ever had displayed to his Preserver
The warmest gratitude—till those masked foes—
Snakes in the grass—between them sought to raise
The bar of discord.

Milla.
Noble Count Crescenzi!—
'Tis strange His Highness should conceive he is
Beneath an obligation to this youth!—
I do repeat, I think it truly strange—
Allowing e'en the most we can allow—
Admitting all you urge in argument—
He only saved His Highness' life!—that's all!—

Dio.
Why! something of an obligation too!—
He only risked his own, to spare his Prince's—
A trifle—yet to be considered—heigh?

Milla.
(warmly.)
A most impertinent presumptuous act!
A youth like him, without or name, or rank,
Or place, or office, near the Royal Person,
To meddle thus—all-uninvited too,
In things of such importance—matters ev'n
Connected with the state!—fie!—fie!—'twas treason!—
The highest pitch of insolence!—for me,
I marvel how His Highness could vouchsafe
To let the Busy-body play a part,
For which he was so glaringly unfit.

Dio.
You would have had him tried at once, no doubt,
By stern Court-Martial there, for his dire crime—
His breach of discipline—his misdemeanour—
And daring act—

Milla.
Most certainly I should!
For I distinctly state, he was unfit
For such a part as he presumed to play!—
Had he but been a Gentleman in Waiting—
A State Page of the Presence—or, perchance,
An ordinary Medical Attendant—
Or an Extraordinary Leech or Surgeon—
The Private Secretary or the Assistant—
Some young Equerry—or some household-follower—
A guard of the Antechamber—Usher—Herald—
The case were different;—but for him to dare
To interpose his vulgar person thus,
Between the Prince and the Enemy who sought
His life—was most preposterously presumptuous!—
Faugh! I am sick of thoughts of it, I swear!—

Cres.
The Prince had sicker been without it, though!
Despite your reasoning.

Dio.
Aye! and I should think
His Highness at the moment scarcely wished
To wait upon the Gentleman in Waiting—
Till it might suit his leisure to appear—
And guard the sacred person of his Prince—
Or to await in the most mortal strait—
Even the fair presence of a Page of the Presence—
To gain deliverance from the jaws of Death!
Fore Heaven!—I think, had you, good Marquess, been
Then in His Highness' place, you had done the same!
And from the vulgar hands of the Unknown,
Accepted that small trifling boon—your life!—

Milla.
You wrong me, Sir!—and let me tell you now,
A tale will prove how ill you judge of me.
Some twenty years ago, when I was made
Ambassador unto the honoured Court
Of His high Catholic Majesty of Spain,
On our return, a furious storm arose,
Threatening the demolition of our bark;
'Twas on a rock—and dangers yawned around.
I could not swim—a common sailor came
With impudent, officious, rude effrontery,
Offering to bear me in his lusty arms!—
(Me—me invested with dread offices—
A Personage of ponderous state and weight)!—

Dio.
By mass, he would have had the worst of it!—
Proceed! dear Marquess!—

Milla.
And proposing thus
To snatch me from the perils of that plight—
This I refused with suiting dignity—
What I—I—be thus piteously preserved?
I as myself—or I—as the awful Proxy—
As the all-distinguished Representative
Of him—the illustrious Duke!—the Accredited—
The Plenipotentiary—could I indeed
Vouchsafe to be preserved by aught beneath
The Captain of the ship!—unhappily—
The Captain was a sorry swimmer;—well!—
I condescended to imply I would
Be graciously pleased in such thwart circumstance
To be—from Death—immediately impending—
Saved by the first Lieutenant—nought beneath
That rank assuredly!—by him indeed—
I peradventure might descend to be
Kept above water—from the grave upheld—
I might so sink myself, as swim with him!—
And favour him by floating through his help.

Cres.
Oh! the overpowering offer!—'twas sublime!—
Nay! most magnanimously memorable!—

Milla.
I even declared, that if the case should grow
Quite desperate—I would flatteringly consent
To honour him, by holding to the last!—
And if I sunk—with affability
Would deign to drag him with me to the bottom!—
And let him drown in my good company!—
The great responsibility, perchance,
Alarmed him, for he showed himself scarce anxious
To share the honours I intended him.
It chanced—a friendly vessel aided us—
And came and took our whole full crew on board—
And I had all the ennobling consciousness
Of having well and worthily myself
Comported most uncompromisingly—
A pattern to all Princes, Emperors, Kings,—
Ambassadors to foreign Courts, and Envoys,
Special or otherwise—Chargés d'Affaires,
Plenipotentiaries, and Internuncios,
Grand Dukes, Arch Dukes, Grandees, and Marquesses;
Generalissimos and Admirals;
Judges and Chancellors and Privy Councillors;
Peers and Lord high hereditary Grand Treasurers!—
And I feel sure in battle I would die
(Could I not be legitimately spared,)
Rather than let some low clown save my life!—
Or one unknown—unnoticed—and unnamed!—
Who boasts no sixteen quarters of his own!—

Cres.
For my part, when in Battle, I should need
But one, methinks!—“Give quarter!—quarter!—Ho!”—
And that from the enemy!—

Milla.
Remember, pray—
Above all—Sovereigns should indeed but think
Of dread Posterity, and what will say
The Subjects of their Great-great-Grandchildren!
They should consider but the World!—the World!—

Dio.
His Highness did—and wished to stay in it
A little longer;—now it seems to me
'Twas the best compliment that he could pay it!—

Milla.
He should have thought of what the World would say—
Have paid more homage to the popular breath!—

Cres.
Nay! he was right to think first of his own—
And bargain for that longer breathing space—
Oh! most incontrovertibly!—

Milla.
Indeed,
He should have dwelt more on appearances!—

Cres.
Now it appears to me, the appearance then
Of his young brave Deliverer, must have been
The most agreeable of all appearances!—
Time wears—good sooth—we must be gone—but first—
Dear Marquess—wilt thou sup with us to-night?
(To Dio.)
The fellow's so amusing, I must try
And make him come!—a party—small—select—
Pray you say, yes!—

Milla.
(looking suspiciously.)
Why truly!—truly!—well!—
Inform me with what purport—pray declare—
Now with what motive does your Lordship give
This same small supper—heigh? What's in the Wind?—
The Object of the Supper?—

Cres.
Object! none!—
Save to appease our hunger sociably!

Milla.
Nay! People sup not, sure, without strong cause!—
That is, I mean, they do not suppers give!—

Cres.
Why! Friend! you are so suspicious—'twas yestreen,
You would not walk with a most lovely lady,
For fear she entertained some dark design
Against your good—(now I can swear to you,
You were the Entertainer!)—but indeed,
'Gainst all the laws of gallantry—thus you—
Suspected her!—

Milla.
I own the impeachment—yes!
That Lady is so full of cunning wiles—
The Lady Fiorilina—

Dio.
Nay, believe
You wrong her cruelly—and you—you know—
She is ever kind to you!—But I feel sure
You would suspect the Angels—should they come
And gently hold their bright hands out to you!—
You would but think them flatterers like yourself—
And sidle back from their embrace!

Milla.
Who? I?
Oh! fie! Sir! what!—indeed, you judge me ill!
What!—I suspect Their Highnesses!—

Dio.
Ha! ha!—
Yes! Marquess!—now, you know, you know, you would
And even the Archangels if they showed you favour.

Milla.
I never could so wrong Their Eminencies!—
Nay! I would say their Holinesses, or
Their Excellent Majesties—if I am right—
Their Seats are Thrones!—

Cres.
Perchance, for Satan now—

Milla.
Hush!—speak not so abruptly on the sudden—
Thus of his Low Infernal Highness: or,
It may be, His High Lowness, or—

Dio.
Good troth!—
You are right—a sure Eaves-dropper he must be,
Where Courtiers talk—far likelier I must own,
Than the afore-mentioned ones!—Well! we must now
Leave you in his good Company! Farewell
My pearl of peers!—

Milla.
Your bounden Slave, Seignors!
And truest well-wisher—and lowliest servant.
[Exeunt Dio. and Cres.
Now I must think on my projected suit
To Lady Fiorilina—I must see
What chance I have of happiness with her,
By studying carefully her pedigree.
Poor Soul! her brother told the truth, indeed,
When he remarked how kind to me she is—
She never sees me but she smiles!—at times—
Ev'n laughs outright—in nervous trepidation,
And over-joy!—She is, it must be owned,
Outrageously in love with my appearance—
Manner—delivery—walk—and ev'n apparel!—
I pity her—but must applaud her taste!
Oh! Millaflores!—thou thrice-dangerous man—
There's not a Grandmother in Florence now,
But cries, “Behold him! fifty years ago
I might have died of love for such a Beau!”

[Exit.

Scene III.

—A Chamber in the House of Count Lambertazzi.
Enter Fiorilina followed by Monna Laura.
Laura.
I will inform without delay, so please you,
Lady Costanza, of your presence here.
I know not what, but something late hath chanced
Much to disturb and vex her—all the day
Her only occupation hath been weeping!—
Hard labour too—and what are its returns,
Save swollen red eyes and pallid cheeks? I trow,
Tears are like tares—and only run to waste!—
Things that sprout merely—to be thrown away—
Alack!—alack!—

Fio.
Well! Monna Laura, haste,
And tell your mistress I await her here—
My task shall be to soothe and to console.

Lau.
Mine hath been that already; I have tried
All consolations, and all comforts too!—
'Tis vain!—I tell her she will surely have
To break her heart a dozen times at least,
Ere she can hope for aught like happiness—
And then, perhaps, that Happiness will prove
A cruel disappointment after all!
I tell her all that woman hath before her,
Is wrong and blame, desertion and neglect—
That Lovers' hearts change twenty times a day—
That I can take it on myself to swear—
Not one cares really one half stiver for her!—
But strange to say—she is not yet consoled.

Fio.
Pray, Monna Laura, take my message now!
I cannot long remain.

Lau.
I go at once!
[Exit Laura.

Fio.
Alas! ill fitted I must be, I fear,
For this nice part of Comforter!—my heart
Is fluttering like a wounded bird within,
Wounded and dying!—shall I own the truth?
Shall I disclose my weakness and my woe—
The secret of my Soul—so long suppressed!
So long locked like a treasure in a grave?—
Shall I unfold my Grief unto her Grief—
Give her the first and best of consolations—
Complete and finely-feeling sympathy—
I cannot—no! I cannot!—

Enter Costanza.
Cos.
Thou art here!—
Kindest and dearest!—I am sad thou'rt come—
I shall but cloud thy joyous spirits o'er—
And send thee back all beggared of thy smiles—
Thy gay, light fancies, and thy peace and gladness—
Thou canst not see my bitter grief unmoved—
And bitter grief and I no more can part!—

Fio.
Explain thyself!—I tremble!—hast thou seen
The young Algarves?—seems he changed?

Cos.
Ah! no!—
I have not seen him;—would I never had!—
But Oh!—sweet Fiorilina!—pity me!
My Uncle, almost grown a tyrant now,
Urges with vehemence and sternness ev'n,
My union with Lorenzo!—

Fio.
(Aside.)
Oh! my heart!—
Die on the thought!—Oh! misery!—Oh! despair!—
(Aloud.)
Thou wilt not yield—thou wilt not—canst not—No!—
Not sacrifice Algarves and thyself!—

Cos.
Alas! I fear—I deeply fear—I must—
I know not what to do—my Uncle seems
Determined—most unbending—all his hopes
He cries are centred in this project now—
How can I brave him?—how can I refuse
To serve his wishes, who hath watched all mine
From infancy?—How—how can I avoid
Submission and obedience?—Shall I change
Compliance suddenly to bold defiance?
I must obey his bidding!—

Fio.
Thou must not!—
No! thou must not do thus!—It cannot be
Thy duty—and it is not!—No!—Oh!—no!—
Thou wilt not—canst not—shalt not—thus at once—
Thus at one blow—with one breath—sacrifice
Algarves and thyself and—me!—aye!—me!—

Cos.
Thee!—Fiorilina!—in thy turn explain!—
What mean'st thou?—I am most perplexed—confused—
Can it be then thou lov'st Lorenzo? speak!—

Fio.
Can this be?—can it!—Oh! Costanza! know,
None ever loved so fervently and deeply!—
Long have I struggled with myself—in vain—
The fiery struggles made the Feelings mightier—
Like very Wrestlers they increased their strength,
By each distracting conflict that they fought—
(Alas! not so with Reason's faint suggestions!)
And now their might indeed hath mastered mine!

Cos.
My thought returns not from its great surprise!—
Thou lov'st!—and lov'st Lorenzo!—thou art conquered!—
Thou! who hast still defied that Passion's power!—
I thank thee! Fiorilina! thank thee much!—
Bless thee for this confession!—thou hast given
A double motive to my doubtful mind!—
Another reason for my strong refusal!—
I thank thee—thank thee—Fiorilina dear!—
And can it be indeed?—this is most strange!—
I never should have guessed—ne'er dreamed of this!—
But rather far,—beholding in his joy,
The bold glad lark upspringing to the sun,
Should I have fancied that he soared in sadness—
Have deemed he bore within his throbbing breast
The fabled thorn that wounds the nightingale,
Than that thy heart contained the fatal shaft!—
The empoisoned mischief Love is strong to speed—
Contained it and concealed—for 'twas concealed
Beneath a mask of sprightliest merriment!—
Well framed of thousand smiles and laughters still!—
I marvel yet and ever!—

Fio.
This surprise,
Surprises me!—I scarcely could believe
I had so well succeeded to my wish!—
And hid the hoards of feeling at my heart!—
But 'twas well done!—

Cos.
Nay, dearest!—I do think
Thou hast deceived thyself—it may not be!—
It cannot be thou lov'st so deeply well—
Yet hast so well subdued—so well suppressed—
All outward signs of that which wrought within!—
Thou dost not love!—

Fio.
Not love!—Oh! make that true,
And I will bless and thank thee as thou hast thanked me!—
Not love!—hear that!—my beating, bounding heart!—
And live one moment on thy fancied freedom!—
Too much we judge of others by ourselves!—
Thy gentle spirit crushed beneath the weight—
Clings for support to the oak of others' strength—
An over-loaded and faint-trailing vine—
So thou'rt sustained—by shadowing sympathy—
And deem'st that others must be propped like thee!—
Mine bears its mighty burthen by itself!—
Clothed round with secresy—with silence mailed—
The very stir and strife and storm within,
Of my wild Passion's might, support my soul—
A storm of triumph—and a strife of fervour—
My fiery Spirit sitteth in the Sun!—
And sees the Stars burn round it evermore!—
It revels in its own intenseness still!—
It glories in the trouble of its zeal!—
Thou think'st thou lov'st,—I tell thee—and 'tis truth,
Thy love is cold as subterraneous springs
To mine—Costanza!—deep—but not so high!—
Thine is a shadow to the light of mine—
Thine is a shrinking love!—it dares not soar!—
It sits i' the dust and worshippeth!—Mine flies!—
Mounts Heaven still after Heaven, to sink, indeed,
To Earth at length!—and own that the aëriest height,
Is less supreme than that sublime abasement—
Less glorious than that fall beneath his feet!—
For 'tis beneath his feet it sinks at last!—

Cos.
Disparage not thy poor Costanza's love!—
Thou ownest that fall yet nobler than the flight!—
Ah! doubt not that the love that dwells girt round,
For ever with a touching lowliness,
Is strong and great, and bright—and fresh and true,—
As that which swells with mountainous up-towerings!—
What if it soars not to the ethereal cope—
It brings the Stars down to its place of pride—
For every thought seems Constellation-crowned—
And all self-honoured its Humilities!—
And I am proud since I have loved so well—
Proud—high above the Angels!—and the lower—
The lower—that thus I sink in fathomless Feeling—
The loftier is my Triumph and my Trust!
No crowd-encircled Conqueror wheeled in gold,
And smothering dust of glory, with his name
Sent to the Sun in Heaven, from thousand throats
That play obsequiously the trumpets' parts—
Surrounded with whole nations of adorers—
Supplanting cymbals with their loud-clapped hands—
And startling Heaven as with Earth-thunderings, there—
Ere felt the tithe of the overpowering rapture—
The happy haughtiness—Heart-gratulation—
Delectable deliriousness of triumph—
That I do feel in Love's bright Sovereign Slavery!—
Oh! proud am I—when trembling from his tongue—
Comes some slight word that speaketh in my praise—
More by its tone—than turn of phrase and language—
Or when a love-light look emblazeth all—
My Being from his rapture-beaming eye!—

Fio.
My Heart's dear sister!—more my sister now!—

Cos.
I hug my bright Humility!—would hurl—
All glories and all greatnesses of Earth—
From my free Passion-Empired Spirit's sphere—
Smile back the sway—rule—masterdom—of worlds—
With all the Empurpled Sumptuousness of pride—
From my Horizon that is all of Heaven!
August is such an abjectness of Heart—
Sublime is such a proud submissiveness—
Be all my ornaments his looks of love!—
My treasures—his dear thoughts—my World—his Presence!—
Alas! the annihilation of this absence!—

Fio.
Thou lov'st!—thou lov'st!—I will not say—like me—
Still well and worthily thou lovest!—But ever
New thoughts do crowd and hurry on my Soul,
In gorgeous and supreme assemblages!—
They dazzle me from mine own Self—so glorious!
Such purple-proud processions through the mind!—
Such bright array still opening in fresh triumphs!
For thus my Love still speaks in Showers of Sunbeams—
My Spirit trembles with surprise!—

Cos.
Ah! say!—
Dost thou remember, Fiorilina, when
Thy maiden died—'twas said—died broken-hearted—
Her lover having faithless proved—and false—
(Then little knew we of Love's treacherous power—
And much perplexed, we wondered while we wailed!)—
Rememberest thou—we saw her in her shroud?
Her blind, yet blandest aspect, made the Soul
Drink deep of Death!—Aye! into all its life!—
Even unto all its everlastingness!—
Till drunken with his heavy slumberous strength—
And solemn sweetness?—

Fio.
I remember well!—

Cos.
Oh! Fiorilina—I could wish, methinks,
Even now to sleep the same dark heavenly sleep,
And 'scape Love's restless hopes, and racking joys—
For ev'n Love's joys are troubled to their depth!—
Oh! Royalty of dear Repose!—Oh! Death!—
Nurse thou this sick and most tired child—my Soul—
That asks thy comfortable carefulness—
And pines for peace!—

Fio.
Speak not so sadly, thou!—
Thou art beloved!—for me!—I fear!—I fear!—
Yet scarce find courage to approach that thought!—
Oh! I remember well the faint blind smile—
(For she did smile in death!)—that maiden wore—
Lost Ginevra!—and I do deeply feel
The wearers of such smiles are blessed indeed!—
But let us not in vain thus lingering hang—
(Two sister-sorrows—partners in our pain—)
In sad companionship of memories mournful—
O'er by-gone days—we must arise to act
And strive—

Cos.
And suffer!—Oh! I fain would draw
Ten thousand thoughts and dreamings from the Past—
From Truth or Fiction, to o'er-sway—o'er-shadow,
And mantle up the one dire feeling, housed
Within my Heart of Hearts—my heavy lot
Must be, to yield up life and love and hope,
Or grieve my Father—Guardian—Friend—

Fio.
Nay! hush!—
Thy choice is made—'twere madness—morbid madness—
To doubt thy clear self-duty on this point!
And thou hast confessed to me, ere this, the thought
Of marrying with Lorenzo—to thy Soul—
Is loathsome—terrible!

Cos.
I own it!—yes!—
And yet 'tis strange, the excess of shrinking horror
With which this thought doth fill me,—since, indeed,
Far from misliking him—I have ever felt
The tenderest warmth of friendship toward the youth—
E'en singularly so.

Fio.
The cause is plain!—
Thou lov'st Alphonzo—and Lorenzo stands
Between thyself and him.

Cos.
It must be so—
I trust—I trust that he is not made wretched!—
The thought is very painful to my Heart—
Thou must console him—thou must make his bliss—
I would not be the cause of Grief and Sorrow—
Oh! have I e'er given pain?—I would not do so!
No! I would rather die than be the cause
Of Pain to others!—if we thus give pain—
We know not well how it affects and shakes them—
We know not—cannot dream what fibres fine—
May thrill through all their being!—nor may guess
The sum of their veiled Sufferance!—for ourselves
We know what we do suffer—but 'tis sure
A fearful thing to grieve another's Heart!
To set up Pain to rule another's Soul!
We know not where it ends, nor where begins—
Nor its commencings nor concludings mark!—
It may be cause of thoughts of strange distrusts—
Of rankling feelings—hatreds—discontents—
Distemperatures—and maladies of mind—
And loss of all the good and bliss of earth—
Nay! Hopes of Heaven!—Ah! let me ne'er give Pain

Enter Count Lambertazzi.
Lam.
The gentle Lady Fiorilina here!—
Nay, then I guess the talk hath surely been
Of trimmings and of taffetas, wherewith
You will together outshine all beside—
That may be bidden to the Ducal Festa—
And make half Florence blind.—

Fio.
Stone-blind with beauty.—
Yea!—and stark-mad with love!—I leave you now—
Most dear Costanza, for my Brother waits
For me to choose between two beauteous gems—
To loop the sleeves up of my new-wrought robe—
There is a question too I must decide,
Between a carkanet of Chalcedoines
And one of paly pearls.
[Exit Fio.

Lam.
Now speak at once—
My Child!—my Child!—hast thou considered well?—
Wilt give thy dutiful—most dear consent
To my most deep and darling wish?

Cos.
Alas!
Forgive this guilty heart, that cannot teach
Its every pulse and property and power—
To answer to thy lightest wish revealed—
Or with a surer instinct to respond
To those—yet uncommunicated—hidden—

Lam.
Thy words, Costanza, are most kind,—but yet
Kind deeds and dutiful would please me more;
Wilt thou espouse Lorenzo?—

Cos.
Oh!—no!—no!—
Oh! never!—no!—I cannot!—never!—no!—
That answer pealeth from my deepest Soul!—
My thoughts find Voices to cry out—No! never!—
All that is me becomes a Voice to send
That answer back, and shudders into—No!

Lam.
Lov'st thou another?—

Cos.
Oh! forgive me! nay!—

Lam.
Dost love none other?—

Cos.
Pity me, I pray thee!

Lam.
Thou lov'st another!—

Cos.
Pity me, and pardon!—

Lam.
Confess thou lovest—thou lovest!—

Cos.
Peace!—hush! no more!—

Lam.
Whom lov'st thou?—

Cos.
No!—I cannot speak—I choke—
I know, I know thou lov'st him not!—not so!—
I speak wild words,—I heed not what I say!—

Lam.
(Aside.)
The horrid truth stares out to me, great Heaven!—
She loves him I detest!—the abhorred Algarves!—
Ere this hath she unto my watchful ear
Let fall dark words confirming my suspicions!—
Most wretched Lambertazzi!—every hope
Was centred here, in this Beloved One!
My whole Life darkens into disappointment!
Beyond that hope smiled no Horizon—none!—
(Aloud.)
Costanza!—I will leave thee to reflect—
Since I would urge thee to reflect awhile,
Ere yet thy full entire refusal dooms—
My Life to wrecks of wretchedness and ruin!
[Exit Lam.

Cos.
Right bitterly have I the heart-ache now!
To deadliness of dreary-sick despair—
Aching and aching—all my sides will burst!—
Yes! Grief is ripe—ripe now:—and 'twill not bear
To be enclosed in such a little mould,—
'Twill break its way through, and fill all the World—
Smother the Sun, and stifle up the Skies!—
And shroud the bright Stars in their heights of calm—
Till Darkness frowns his chaos o'er creation!—
Come! thou tremendous Desolation!—Death!—
For I am tortured by this tyrant, Life—
And fain would sleep my crushing cares away!—

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—Apartment in the Grand Ducal Palace, brilliantly illuminated.
Several Guests and Courtiers are standing about.
Enter the Marchese de Millaflores, Crescenzi, Diodati, and Lorenzo.
Milla.
Not yet our Sun of Royalty has risen.

Cres.
But thou shin'st like a comet to console us,
With thy fine train of rare particular courtiers.

Loren.
Methinks, dear Marquess, thou must meditate
Some dire heart-murder this same night—thy dress—
Thine air—all threaten Execution's worst!—

Dio.
My poor, poor Sister!—wretched, hapless victim!—
I marvel much why she delays so long—
Myself will go and seek her, and prepare
For these soft dangers, she must strive to meet!—

[Exit laughing.
Cres.
Propose yourself, to-night, dear Marquess, pray—
Believe me, you were best—for I have heard
Bad news—most heavy news—I grieve to say—
Dark hints of Count Giordano's fond intentions!
I fear me, he will yet your rival prove!
For I am told the fair one would espouse him!—
'Tis true, she reigns not solely in his love;
His Heart, I ween, is full of little holes
As any venerable Pincushion,
(Worn out in its profession of Utility—)
That does its duty by the land it lives in—
Or as your own old tattered Tapestries—Marquess!—
I am your pledge for that—but much I fear,
Lest she should give her snow-white hand to him!—

Milla.
Him!—what!—a simple Count!—If she indeed
Would marry him, she must of course, no doubt,
Wed me a thousand times more joyfully—
Who move—a Marquess!—so I thank you, Sir!—
For what you style bad news: you see 'tis plain
If she would willingly a Countess prove—
Assuredly a Marchioness she must
Become, with thrice the pleasure—that is clear!—
But deep considerations must be mine,
And anxious ponderings—I would know the worth—
The sound real worth—the excellence and goodness—

Cres.
Be very sure her Heart's a mine of wealth!—

Milla.
Her Heart!—why—no! Her House I am thinking of—
('Tis of importance far more vital surely!)—
The noble House and Name of the Diodati!—

Cres.
Ha!—Ha!—but then if Hearts should not be joined—

Milla.
They seldom are, I think—in Heraldry!—
Hands gauntletted, I doubt, I have seen thus!—
And if my memory serves me—I have seen—
Yes! yes!—I recollect a crest approved—
A hand—close mailed—and clutched within its hold,
A sheathless dagger—but a Heart—Oh! never!—
Not once in crests or coats—no! never!—no!—
A bleeding Heart's—a very poor Pretence!—
Well! I must think most seriously and deeply—
I must examine first her pedigree—
Must weigh her merits—know if she is pure!—

Cres.
Pure!—why no angel—

Milla.
Hush! Sir!—I do mean—
In her descent—the other's less important—
And common in comparison—be sure!—
Most difficult it is—'tis very hard—
To find a wife—to find a wife—I say—
Right worthy of one's arms!—

Cres.
Well!—is she not
All loveliness?—a Sultan e'en might sigh
To call such matchless Beauteousness his own!

Milla.
Sir!—I do mean Heraldic Arms—I pray
Conceive my meaning better—this besides,
My duty 'tis to choose a peerless wife—
Replete with rare perfections—heaped with honours—
In short, one worthy—worthy every way
(When that the fulness of the time is come—)
To sleep with—all my stately Ancestors!—

Loren.
Ha! ha! good Marquess!—well I know your thoughts
Are ever running on your funeral Vault—
But I much doubt your youthful spouse—

Milla.
My Vault!—
It hath no equal in all Christendom—
Kings might resign their thrones for such a tomb!—
I do propose to give there,—some fair day,
A small select Assembly, for the purpose
Of well examining the various coffins—
I beg to invite you—'twill be gay and pleasant!—
(Indeed, I think of opening some half-dozen—)
Admiring—

Loren.
Hush!—fair Fiorilina comes—
And with her comes the unmatched Costanza too—
Now making night so precious with her Beauty,
That we might doubt if e'er the out-lustred Sun—
Durst rise again—or be in rising—noticed!—

Enter Fiorilina, Costanza, Diodati, and Lambertazzi; the latter walks thoughtfully apart.
Milla.
(to Fio.)
Sweet Lady, might I pray awhile even now
Thy kind attention?—She heeds not—Ahem!—

Fio.
(to Cos.)
Oh! save me! could'st thou know how much my heart
Forswears its firmness—and forsakes itself—

Cos.
(to Fio.)
I save thee!—who am weaker far!—

Milla.
Sweet Dame—
Most rare Perfection—I would fain discourse
To thee awhile, on a most pleasing subject—
Thy lovely looks remind me forcibly—
Of the epitaph in my funereal vault—
Which saith—

Fio.
I pray your pardon, Sir,—consult
My Brother here on the old inscription's merits!—

Milla.
Nay! Madam! Madam! (Fio. walks with Cos. away.)
She misunderstands me—
Well! well!—'tis better this should be deferred—
I might have compromised myself too soon—
Once fell I in great danger!—

Cres.
How?

Milla.
Ev'n thus—
I had made, partly made, proposals grave
To Countess Bianca—when I heard there was
A deep, dire, stain—

Cres.
Upon her character!—

Milla.
Worse—her Escutcheon—I at once retreated;—
Lady Olympia then I sought—an Heiress—
Herself was perfect, but I found 'twas rumoured—
Her Great Maternal Aunt was rather doubtful—
A Capulet,—whose Cousin at Verona
Had had a Step-son, who had had a Nephew
That married with an onion merchant's Niece!—
Long could I dwell on the Attractions bright
Held out by fair Leonora dell' Orsini—
I was profound in tenderest admiration—
For that sweet Lady's Great-great-Grandfather!—
A worthy Nobleman—who held discreetly—
Most of the offices about the Court!—
But then, her Mother had plebeian ancles!

(Voices without.)
Way! way there! for His Highness! way! the Duke!

Enter the Grand Duke, Princess Beatrice, Count Giordano, &c. Guests crowd round.
G. Duke.
A bright assemblage!—welcome, welcome all!—
My Halls will be filled gladly and most worthily
With your fair merriments!—I pray ye now—
To your diversions!—bid the music sound—
Beseech ye—seek ye all your mirth and pleasures,—
Our hospitalities are honoured most—
By those who most shall seize them, and enjoy!—
Be welcome, fair Costanza, here!—with thee
I mark thy young Venetian Friend—the bright
And beauteous Daughter of Prince Diodati!—
Let our fair Florentines look to it well!
Sweet Lady! thou'rt a dangerous rival, faith—
And wilt bear back with thee the Hearts of half
Our Youthful Intrepidities of Florence!—

Fio.
Your Highness flatters with so good a grace,
That truth henceforth shall most distasteful seem.

Princess Bea.
Our dear Costanza!—'tis an age of time
Since thou hast shone forth at masquerade or festa—
What happy change hath brought thee out to-night?

Cos.
Nay, Madam, when the Gracious Duke commands
Our duteous presence,—who but would obey?

G. Duke.
To your Diversions!—Dames—and Cavalieri!—

[The Duke and Princess retire.
Lam.
(to Gior.)
Where tarries young Algarves?—he is late—
He and his fast sworn friend—the Guicciardini.

Gior.
Algarves has been closeted long hours
In closest conference with the gracious Duke—
He hath indeed but lately left the Palace
To change his garb, ere he shall re-appear
In this gay galaxy of pomp and beauty—
A new appointment is bestowed upon him—
And, as I hear, his friend, the Guicciardini,
Will be associated in this employ,
By his desire and earnest-warm entreaty.

Lam.
A worthy couplet!—two green, crude, young brains!
Now shall we soon have war again be sure—
The fiery heart of young Algarves ne'er
Can brook this pause of Peace—and mark my words—
It will not last!—his restless flames of Soul
Wave with each breath—fast scattering sparks of strife
All round their place of perilous Occupation!

Gior.
I know not!—but observe—the friends approach.

Enter Algarves and Guicciardini.
Lam.
Avoid them!—I would further speak with thee.—

[They retire.
Al.
Behold her in the distance!—more than lovely!—
In Boundlessness of Beauty—there she stands!—
Methought her eye caught mine—it surely doth!—
My long chilled life glows ripening in that ray!—
Two souls I see there,—two in those deep eyes—
Hers and mine own!—No! no! they melt to one!—
My Mind seems spangling out as with all Stars—
So bright my thoughts become with blessedness—
But thou, my Friend—thou'rt grave and sad-sedate—
Whom seeks thine eye—with such a mournful keenness?—

Gui.
The secret of thy Heart—I pierced and read—
My Soul at once shot through its winding depths—
And flashed the clouds away—but I must light
Those little fluttering, twinkling lamps—dull words—
To lead thee through the darkness of mine own—
Mine eyes seek her whom all my thoughts adore—
The Princess Beatrice!—

Al.
Hah! is't so!—
I ne'er imagined this—and hast thou hope?—

Gui.
The Hope to love her to my latest breath—
And love in undiscovered silent sorrow!—

Al.
Fie on't! nay! have a better courage—come—
The gallant Guicciardini well might hope!—
But hist! Costanza—or the Sun draws nigh—
For dazzled droops mine o'er-illumined eye!

Gui.
Speak! speak to her!—she trembles—scarce her friend,
Fair Fiorilina, can support her steps!—

Al.
I know not—if in absence—fairest Lady—
I have been beggared of deep affluence—such
As should make Monarchs richer—richer far—
Namely—the lightest scatterings of your thoughts?—

Cos.
Receive my welcome back to Florence, Sir—
(Aside.)
Speak, Fiorilina, for my voice is dead!—

Fio.
And mine, fair Sir! we are both rejoiced to see
One—long, much missed, restored to us again.

Al.
(Aside to Cos.)
Wilt thou not speak then, Lady?—save, those few
Close-measured words of formal friendliness!—
One moment—and one little step apart?
[She walks with him aside.
Oh! sweet Costanza! though with words before
I never dared unshroud my Soul to thine—
Did looks—did actions not enough reveal
Of the ecstasy of Love I felt for thee?
And dared I hope too madly, when I hoped
Thou wert not all impassive—all indifferent?—

Cos.
I ne'er yet gave you cause, Sir, to assume
That I in any way was otherwise—
I might not—and I could not give you cause—

Al.
Thou say'st it!—must this be?—then I have been—
Most miserably mistaken—there is all!—

Cos.
(Aside.)
And I more miserably misunderstood!—

Al.
Farewell! sweet Lady!—

Cos.
What!—thou art going, Sir?—
Nay! go not yet—the revel's scarce begun.

Al.
Oh! this is torture!—hast thou not denied
The slightest interest in my blighted fate—
The faintest sympathy—and talk'st of revels?—
The broken heart a sorry reveller seems!—

Cos.
(timidly.)
How say'st thou I denied thee?—

Al.
(passionately.)
How said'st thou?—
Crush out my Heart, but do not play with it!—
Martyr me! murder me! but do not mock me!—
Thou didst deny me every gleam of hope!—

Cos.
I did deny thee!—No!—

Al.
Thou didst!

Cos.
Oh!—brave!—
Tell me again!— (Aside.)
I may feel proud to be—
So high a Heroine of the Heart!—

Al.
Alas!
What mean'st thou?—spare the wretch thou'st made so! spare—
Costanza! cruel one!—thou could'st deny me!—

Cos.
I could?—I could?—Oh Heaven!—

Al.
Once more—reply!—
Didst thou deny me!—dost thou!—

Cos.
I have done it!—
Yes! I have done it!—yes! thou say'st it!—

Al.
Stay!—
Oh! hear me!—answer me!—say! dost thou love me?—

Cos.
I would not!—no!—I would not!—ask me not!—

[Milla. comes forward from the background.
Milla.
Most gentle Lady, canst inform me pray
If Lady Fiorilina's Mother spelt
Her Maiden name with two L's, or with one?—
'Tis of the last importance to my peace!—

Al.
(Aside.)
Plague take this meddling mischief of a Marquess—
This most pestiferous and preposterous fool!—

[Lambertazzi approaches them.
Lam.
Dear Marquess! thou'rt the pink of Courtiers ever!
Wilt thou conduct my fair Costanza hence—
To where she better can behold the dance,
Since loth she seems to join it yet. (Angrily to Algarves,)
Seignor,
Your services I humbly beg to acknowledge—
And yet more humbly, pray to be allowed
Entirely to dispense with.

Al.
(Carelessly.)
As you will,
My singular good Lord!—all lovely dames
Have ever found me, 'mid the Court Cavalieri,
Most loyal-zealous in their happy service!—
When such is needed not—I can refrain!—
How fair our Princess Beatrice looks!—
How well that coronet becomes her head!—
(Aside.)
And fairly smiles she on my noble friend!—
And gladdening glows my Guicciardini's brow!—

Enter Inez veiled.
Milla.
By Stars and Orders! But whom have we here?

Lam.
(Aside.)
Heavens! my Heart thrills; how Spanish looks that form!
More!—more!—how like the graceful stateliness—
Of the Estremaduran's whom I loved and—lost!—

[Inez approaches, and signs to Lambertazzi.
Al.
(Aside.)
How like my Mother's form!—how like her step!
(Aloud.)
Good Seignor Count—this masquerading Fair
Appears to have communications secret
For your especial ear;—Lord Marquess!—come!
'Twere best we joined the jocund revellers yonder.

[They walk up the stage.
Inez.
Count Lambertazzi!—

Lam.
Ministers of Grace!—
Good Guardian Angels!—is it Her indeed!—

Inez.
(Aside.)
Ay di mí, ay di mí,—once more I see him!
(Aloud.)
Remember'st thou the unhappiest, and most faulty—
The sacrificed and ruined Inez?—

Lam.
Aye!—

Inez.
Behold her trusted, tried, first, last of friends—
Estrella di Monaco!—

Lam.
Well! oh! well!
Do I remember, on lost Inez' lips—
That name in tenderest repetition dwelling!—
Yes! she would weep and call upon that name,
As sinners and as sufferers on their Saints!—

Inez.
She called on that in death, and not in vain!—
But listen—I have words to speak to thee
That must not here be interrupted—hist!—
I cannot long remain—nor must thou seek
In any way to penetrate and pierce
The mystery, which 'tis needful I maintain.
First swear to this!—

Lam.
I swear!—Oh! tell me now!—

Inez.
But little for the present!—hark! thus much—
Thy Nephew who—

Lam.
(starts.)
Speak!—what of him?—

Inez.
He lives!—

Lam.
He lives!—ah! wherefore not my Son!—but hold—
A light breaks in on me—'twas Inez' Parents
That stole the missing children!—

Inez.
Silence! hear!—
Contrive by some fair chance to gaze upon
A certain miniature which young Algarves—

Lam.
Algarves!—Death!—

Inez.
Attend!—which he conceals
Within his bosom—'twill enlighten thee!—
No words!—be still!—I vanish!—
[Exit Inez.

Lam.
Hah!—is't so!—
Perdition and distraction!—'twere too much!—
Algarves!—my lost Brother's Son!—no!—no!—
This monstrous supposition shall not lodge
Within my loathing and abhorrent brain,
Curdling and chilling with the hate and horror!—

(Voices heard crying without)
Way for His Highness!—
Speed the Banquet! speed!—

Milla.
(without.)
What ho! within there!—Marco—Pedro—Luigi!—
Without there!—Beppo, Giorgio, Andrea, Pietro!—
Come! sloths!—go! sluggards!—bustle! bustle! haste!—

Lam.
Away!—none—none must see the flush of fevers,
That make my forehead beat and burn and blacken,
With the o'er-tinged colourings of their pestilent heat!

[He retires.
Milla.
(entering.)
Ye villains! rascals! ho!—where skulk ye hid?
Heigh!—bustle! bustle!—ho! despatch!—I say—
I hear His Highness peremptory for supper!—
(Aside.)
I know they are all ranged at their proper posts,
But it behoves me make a stir and rout,
To seem most sedulous in service still.
Enter Costanza and Fiorilina.
The Lady of my heart approacheth—lo!
Her lovely presence almost roots me here—
But then—my duty—then my Duke!—and deeply
Respondeth from mine inmost Self—my supper!—
'Tis death to go or—stay—the former death
Methinks is preferable on the whole.
[Exit Milla.

Cos.
Thank Heaven! that vain affected fop is gone—
The haste and bustle now may grant us time
To speak disturbless for awhile—my friend!—

Fio.
And hast thou spoken with him?—tell me promptly—
Oh! tell me how thou hast sped! my aching heart
Would seek repose in the anchored Peace of thine!—

Cos.
Oh! Fiorilina!—I have pained and grieved him!—
I knew scarce what I said—scarce know I now!—
Yet something vague, perplexed, and fraught with meaning,
Most adverse from my feelings and intentions!—

Fio.
Nay!—wherefore didst thou thus?—

Cos.
I cannot tell!—
Oh! Fiorilina!—I can tell thee not!—
I am a Fool when he does talk to me—
And have no understanding!—Oh! my Friend!
Still, still so much of him I think—his words
Fall senseless all, and substanceless—for me—
I cannot apprehend them—nor give answer!—
Though with my fullest Soul I hang on them!—
His look doth kill me like the basilisk's!
His Presence is delicious death to me!—
And I am not—when he is near my Soul!—
His Voice!—alas! so mighty is the echo—
That peals deep, deep within my listening heart—
The sense of what he says is all confused—
'Tis left behind and lapsed—and lost and lavished—
From my adoring, yearning wish concealed—
I am a fool when he does speak with me!—

Fio.
Poor child!—thine over-love doth crush thy spirit!—
This well can I conceive!—though still I strive
With desperate struggles to affect the show
Of independence and indifference cold,
When with Lorenzo I must hold discourse—
The while, my suffocating soul is lost
In uttermost emotion!—see! they come—
Lorenzo too—I cannot stay with thee!—
[Exit Fio.

(Lorenzo, Guicciardini, and Algarves approach. Lorenzo talks in dumb show to Cos., who seems turning away.)
Al.
Oh! Heavens! the agony of this suspense!—
At times, my heart believes itself most blessed,
And bounds away in raptured riotous bliss!—
Then in one moment it despairs—and drives
Its sweet dreams back—as they were mocking fiends!—

Gui.
Ah! map not out for me Love's various world—
Too well—too well—this deep-struck bosom knows
By heart the whole Geography of Passion!—
Its Isles of joy midst Oceans of distraction—
Heaven-kissing heights and neighbouring bottomless pits—
Its smiling continents—and scowling deserts!—
But see! Costanza from Lorenzo turns!—
The young Philosopher so grave and mild—
(For as a Schoolsman—Florence cannot match him)—
Boasts not the skill to charm that youthful Heart!—
If I have eyes to read a maiden's Soul,
That heart of Gentleness is thine alone!—

(Millaflores entering, advances towards them.)
Milla.
Dear Signor Count Algarves—for I know,
To-morrow such thy title shall be made—
I do entreat thee, honour my poor house,
By passing there to-morrow—in the even;
I have much to show you of surpassing interest—
Old parchments—

Al.
(turning away coldly from him.)
Sir, I much regret, my time,
Most fully occupied—may scarce admit
Of idling visits—or of gossip-loungings.

Milla.
(Aside.)
So high disdainful!—I am galled at last—
I would mine Ancestors were here beside me
To challenge him and brave!—since I myself,
I own, scarce like that task!—By Heaven and Earth—
I will have vengeance though—dire vengeance too!—
Now who is there that hates him?—hush! I have it!—
Count Lambertazzi!—good!—and here he comes!—

(Lambertazzi approaches; they whisper together.)
Al.
Costanza!—dear Costanza! hear me!—hear!—
With thy mild graciousness and kindliest favour—
Let me address thy blessedness—thy sweetness—
Thine everlastingness of gentleness!—
Hear me and show me mercy!—

Cos.
(Aside.)
Oh! my Soul!
Swoon not so utterly away from me—
Away from him!— (Aloud.)
the Count—the Count!—he marks us—
His lynx-like eye is on my very Heart!—
[Algarves takes her hand.
Oh! pray thee loose my hand!—

Al.
To-morrow, be
In thy young Friend's—fair Fiorilina's house—
At the hour of noon—

Cos.
I dare not answer thee!—

Al.
But say not—no!

Cos.
I do not say it!—

Al.
Bless thee!—

(Lambertazzi comes forward, smiles on Algarves; Millaflores follows.)
Lam.
And what! my child!—art not awearied yet?—
Nay! join the dancers with our honoured Friend—
Signor Algarves!—

Al.
(Aside.)
How! what means this change?—

[He takes her hand; they pause and walk apart.
Milla.
His Highness hath retired to rest, methinks.
Behoves us be most grateful—much beholden
E'en with most ardent—breathless gratitude—
To our great Sovereign.

Lam.
True!—the Fête was gay!—

Milla.
The Fête? yes! yes!—but then besides—consider—
We are bound to be profoundly grateful, since—
With condescension most superlative—
His Highness deigned to taste of pleasure thus—
With overpowering graciousness, to take
The best of everything—I saw't myself!—

Gui.
A wondrous act of graciousness, indeed!—

Milla.
And stooping from his awful height, consented
To much amuse himself!—and more than this—
Be perfectly well satisfied—and pleased—
I marked it!—with his own most royal self—
And this fair Fête he royally devised!—
We ought to be o'erwhelmed with obligations—
(Vast obligations not to be repaid)—
I am oppressed with them, and crushed and smothered!—
(Aside.)
Heaven grant now some one may be listening near,
To make report of this my feverish loyalty!—

Lam.
The revelry is o'er, I 'gin to think—
The sounds of cheery music die away—
The dancers' hurried steps are dumb!—'tis done—
The sprightliest Hours are still the very saddest—
When thus their sands have ebbed and they are finished!—
Algarves!—yet a word with thee!—I pray
Accompany awhile our homeward steps;—
Count Guicciardini—I commend me well
To your most kind esteem;—Costanza! come!—
And thou, good Marquess—pray thee wend with us!—

Milla.
Assuredly!—yet I should wish to say
To-morrow, in His Highness' Audience-Chamber,
I saw the tapers out—with watchful care—
Lest some stray spark—

Lam.
(impatiently.)
E'en say it, then!—but come!—

Milla.
(musing.)
'Tis possible the Princess' waiting woman
May pass this way from fair Beatrice's chamber—
She might report she saw me—t'would sound well!—
Once, I most providentially was made,
On such a bright occasion—as it chanced—
The agent of prompt deliverance for a maiden,
Belonging to Her Highness's own suite—
(I showed much valour too—and thirst for glory—)
From the great dread and dangers of—a Mouse!—

Lam.
The Palace-clock strikes—haste! we are all full late!

[Exeunt all.