 | Raffaelle Cimaro |  |
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
A STREET IN MANTUA.Enter Claudio and Lawyer.
Claudio.
And when, sir, will the duke decide this suit?
Lawyer.
'Tis thought within two days.
Claudio.
I trust 'twill be so!
To linger in incertitude's the sum
Of human ills; the wreck'd and toil-spent shipman,
Who meets a fix'd, inevitable fate,
Feels less of agony, than he whose fortune
Casts him upon a drear and desart rock,
To watch, with credulous eye, th' horizon round,
And form each vap'ry speck into a succour,
And, sickening with hope, to die anew
With every fading object of his fancy.
I'd rather perish by the assassin's sword,
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The mark for ev'ry dull plebeian's pity,
The accus'd of murder.
Lawyer.
This will clear your fame,
And free your honor from all stain.
Claudio.
Oh no!
Honour, once wounded, never can be heal'd;
It is all over vital, and the wound
That stabs it—kills, 'tis tender as the down
That paints the gay and sportive butterfly,
Touch it—the bright and golden covering flies,
And leaves an earth-born worm;
As weak as is the timorous sensitive plant
Than shrivels at the approach—and more inconstant
Than weightless atoms trembling in the sunbeam
Lawyer.
'Tis too fantastic for a lawyer's thought.
'Twas well, sir, that Lorenzo saw the affray,
Your case were else more doubtful, as it is
You've little cause for fear—two friends I think.
Claudio.
Aye, sir, they were so: if they be so now,
Fortune perhaps has not deserted me:
Men's minds are oft the index of our fates,
And as our friendships slacken we may read
Our downfall. Nay, stay with me; you'll much favour me,
To cheer me with your company and counsel.
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Lodovico.
Good morrow, sir.
Claudio.
I thank you for the bidding,
I've need of more good morrows.
Lodovico.
Nay, your cause
As I have heard is clearly on your side,
Your present liberty proves this, methinks.
Alphonso.
Aye, doubtless; trust me all things will be well.
Hear you of Raffaelle, the new Count Cimaro,
The proud and noble heir of dead Antonio?
Claudio.
Yes, sir, I know him well, he's truly noble.
Lodovico.
We're going to his palace straight; to night
He doth eclipse his own magnificence,
Which ne'er was yet equall'd in Mantua;
His peerless spirit spurns all bounds of custom;
His ample fortune ranges like his will;
A thought with him's a deed.
Claudio.
'Tis a brave gentleman.
(To the Lawyer)
Lorenzo did not speak with certainty.
Lawyer.
Most clearly, sir, and plainly.
Alphonso.
You'll be with us
To night at Count Cimaro's.
Claudio.
No, sir, truly
My thoughts are now my fitt'st companions;
They leave me little time for gaiety.
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I would that I could tempt you to the Count's,
All there are nobly welcome—he has a spirit,
Like Antony, to banquet hosts of kings:
Lodovico.
But, since you will not, we must hasten thither,—
I'm grieved at your anxieties.
Alphonso.
And I;
But we must hasten to the festival.
Claudio.
I thank you,
Your kind concern much moves me, my dear friends,
But let me not detain you from your mirth:
Farewell.
Both.
Farewell.
(Exeunt Lod. and Alph.)
Claudio.
Such are the herd of men; 'tis not ourselves
That are the objects of their vulgar friendship,
The very outside dress gains more affection
From them. The bubble fortune is their idol.
But come, sir, for I fear I weary you:
In grief we're scorpion-like, and writhing, turn
Our venom 'gainst ourselves—
I'll strive to be more cheerful, and to wean
My thoughts from melancholy—will you please
Come tow'rd my house.
Lawyer.
I wait upon you, sir.
(Exeunt.)
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SCENE II.
THE GARDEN OF CIMARO'S PALACE BY MOONLIGHT.A retired walk with a Grotto, in the distance illuminated temples, and every appearance of festivity—music without.
Enter Louisa and Maria.
Louisa.
This is a scene more suited to my soul
Than the dull glare of yon gay festival:
Aye—it is true that music has a soul,
And needs responsive feeling to be sweet.
To me the melancholy mournful bird,
That pours her pensive plaint in this recess,
Is more harmonious in her soft lament
Than the full chorus in yon glittering hall.
It was not well to seek for Claudio here;
With him, alas, mirth dwells not—'twas a fault
To think he could be here.
Maria.
Nay, my dear lady,
I wonder he should fail to seek you.
Louisa.
Oh! in his nature dwells so deep a sense
Of truth and honour, he would scorn to seek
My love—were't possible to think him guilty,
And were he so,—I fear I yet should love him:
He cannot doubt, should all the world condemn him,
His name would live fair as this holy light
In my affection.
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And yet you have never
Assured him of it.
Louisa.
Oh! a thousand times
By praising, loving, all he prais'd and lov'd—
By timorous glances, check'd with many a blush,
By the sigh half suppress'd, the fault'ring tongue,
The mute embarassed silence;—are not these—
Not love's assurances—but love itself?
Enter Raffaelle habited as a Magician and masked.
Raffaelle.
I have amaz'd yon idle thoughtless crowd:
Another sight like this would buy their voices,
To make me duke—if they dar'd think so bravely.
I do despise them, though I court their smile;
And yet 'tis well, my state requires their homage,
The homage that the fool or needy knave
Pays to the man who knows to use his wealth,—
Ha! who is this? she whom I mark'd just now,
Whose simple graces even fools appeared
To gaze on longer than on jewell'd dames,
And that's a wonder: she is somewhat sad;
I'll try a masking humour to revive her.
(To her)
I have been weaving spells in yonder halls,
Calling thin sprites from forth the glassy deep,
Decking with instant flow'rs the barren ground,
And filling all the air with sweets ambrosial,
So potent and so perfect was my art;
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Controls my powers and bids me kneel your subject.
Louisa.
I have no spell save what my fancy gives
To this inspired scene, and that's too pure
For fulsome adulation or the homage
Of one—the lord of yon festivity.
Raffaelle.
O'er me a woman and a beauteous one
Possesses all the pow'r of strongest spells
In one soft charm, the potency of love.
Louisa.
A charm indeed, like others but ideal.
Raffaelle.
My friends will scarce believe this doctrine now;
But why prefer this sad and lonely shade
To mirth and joy and social gaiety?
Those beauties sure were formed for other gaze
Than purblind night, or the unconscious moon;
And to those ears the gentle tale of love
Should sound more grateful than the owl's dull hoot;
And that warm heart should beat with quicker pulse,
More vivid soul should dart from those bright eyes
Than scenes of weary solitude inspire.
Louisa.
Alas! sir, I can scarcely answer you
In strains so courtly—I can gain no pleasure
From a fool's smile,—nor can the tale of love,
That's but a tale, spoken, but never felt,
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That tedious labour after sweets ne'er found,
Repay me for the loss of gentler thoughts.
Raffaelle.
Tis well indeed, my sylvan deity,
And lest your wit should change my nature too,
And wrap me here in rural contemplation,
Let me conduct you to my magic kingdom,
And entertain you in my proud domain,
With pomp that may outshine simplicity,
Not in your thoughts,—nor e'en perchance in mine,
But far indeed in theirs who wait my presence,
To pamper to satiety their love
Of wond'rous novelty—will't please you walk?
(Exeunt.)
| Raffaelle Cimaro | |