University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Room, with a Banquet.
[A year has passed.]
ISABELLA.
Time lags, and slights his duty. I remember
The days when he would fly. How sweet they were!
Then I rebuked his speed, and now—and now
I drench his wing with tears. How heavily
The minutes pass! Can he avoid me? No.
I hear a step come sounding through the hall.
It is the murderer, Sforza. Now, my heart!
Rise up in thy full strength, and do the act
Of justice bravely. So, he's here.

Enter Sforza.
SFORZA.
My love!
O my delight, my deity! I am come
To thank you for being gracious. I am late?

ISABELLA.
No: in the best of times, sir.

SFORZA.
Yet you look
Not gay, my Isabella. Nought has happened
To shake your promise?

ISABELLA.
Be assured of that.
Doubt not, nor chide, my lord. My heart, you know,
Falls faint at times. To-night I'll do my best
To entertain you as you merit.

SFORZA.
Better, I hope, my Isabel.

ISABELLA.
Your grace
May challenge any thing; from me the most.
Although a widow, not divested quite
Of all her sorrows, I am here to smile
Like tearful April on you: but you'll grow
To vanity, sir, unless some stop be put
To your amorous conquests. I must do't.

SFORZA.
You shall,
You shall, my Isabella.

ISABELLA.
Sir, I will.
You shall be wholly mine, till—death shall part us.
I have been full of miseries: they have swelled
My heart to bursting. You shall soothe me.

SFORZA.
How?

ISABELLA.
We'll find a way: nay, not so free, my lord;
I must be won with words, (though hollow;) smiles,
And vows, (although you mean them not,) kind looks
And excellent flattery. Come, my lord, what say you?
I'm all impatience.

SFORZA.
Oh! what can I say?
Thou art so lovely, that all words must fail.
They of whom poets sing men say were shadows;
Thus will they swear of thee.

ISABELLA.
Alas! my lord,
I have no laureate here to lie in rhyme;
So must remain unsung.

SFORZA.
But I will have
Your name recorded in the sweetest verse;
And sculptors shall do honour to themselves
And their delicious art by fashioning thee;
And painters shall devise for us a story,
Where thou and I, love, shall be seen reclining,
Thou on my arm—

ISABELLA.
A happy thought!

SFORZA.
And in
The guise of the throned Juno; I as Jove,
In his diviner moments, languishing
Beneath thy look.

ISABELLA.
She was a shrew, my lord,
That queen o' the heavens, and I—

SFORZA.
Then thou shalt be drawn
Like her who, in old inimitable tales,
Was pictured gathering flowers in Sicily,
And raised to Pluto's throne: methinks she was
A beautiful prophecy of thee; and there
Mountains shall rise, and grassy valleys lie
Asleep i' the sun, and blue Sicilian streams
Shall wander, and green woods, (just touched with light,)
Shall yield their foreheads to some western wind
And bend to bright Apollo as he comes
Smiling from out the east. What more? Why you
Shall kneel and pluck the flowers, and look aside
Hearkening for me; and—I will be there, (a god,)
Rushing tow'rds thee, my sweet Proserpina.

ISABELLA.
An ugly story!

SFORZA.
How, sweet?

ISABELLA.
You would take me
To—Hell then? but forgive me: I am ill;
Distract at times: we'll now forget it all.
Come, you will taste my poor repast?

SFORZA.
Oh, surely.

ISABELLA.
We'll be alone.

SFORZA.
'Tis better. Yet I have
[They feast.
No relish for common viands. Shall I drink
To thee, my queen?

ISABELLA.
To me, sir. This (look on't)
Is a curious wine; and like those precious drops
Sought by philosophers, (the life elixir,)
Will make you immortal.

SFORZA.
Give it me, my love.
May you ne'er know an hour of sorrow.

ISABELLA.
Ha!
Stay, stay: soft, put it down.

SFORZA.
Why, how is this?

ISABELLA.
Would—would you drink without me? Shame upon you!
Look at this fruit: a sea-worn captain, one
Who had sailed all 'round the world, brought it for me
From the Indian isles; the natives there, men say,
Worship it. This.

SFORZA.
It has a luscious taste.
My nephew, when he lived, loved such a fruit.

ISABELLA.
Thanks, spirits of vengeance!
[Aside.
Now you shall taste the immortal wine, my lord,
And drink a health to Cupid.

SFORZA.
Cupid, then.
He was a cunning god: he dimmed men's eyes,
'Tis prettily said i' the fable. But my eyes
(Yet how I love!) are clear as though I were
A stoic. Ah!

ISABELLA.
What ails my lord?

SFORZA.
The wine is cold.

ISABELLA.
You'll find it warmer, shortly.
It is its nature, as I'm told, to heat
The heart. My lord, I read but yesterday
Of an old man, a Grecian poet, who
Devoted all his life to wine, and died
O' the grape. Methinks 'twas just.

SFORZA.
'Twas so. This wine—

ISABELLA.
And stories have been told of men whose lives
Were infamous, and so their end. I mean
That the red murderer has himself been murdered;
The traitor struck with treason: He who let
The orphan perish, came himself to want:
Thus justice and great God have ordered it!
So that the scene of evil has been turned
Against the actor; pain paid back with pain;
And—poison given for poison.

SFORZA.
O my heart!

ISABELLA.
Is the wine still so cold, sir?

SFORZA.
I am burning.
Some water: I burn with thirst. Oh! what is this?

ISABELLA.
You're pale: I'll call for help. Here!

Servants enter.
ISABELLA.
Bind that man
To his seat.

SFORZA.
Ah! traitress.

ISABELLA.
Leave us now,—alone.
[Servants exeunt.
My lord! I'll not deceive you: you have drank
Your last draught in this world.

SFORZA.
My heart, my heart!
Traitress! I faint—faint: ah!

ISABELLA.
I would have done
Some act of justice in a milder shape:
But it could not be. I felt that you must die;
For my sake, for my boy, for Milan. You
Murdered my lord husband. Stare not thus:
'Tis melancholy truth. You have usurped
The first place in the dukedom; have swept down
My child's rights to the dust. What say you, sir?
Do you impeach my story? While you've time,
Give answer.
[He dies.
You are silent? then, are you
Condemned for ever. I could grieve, almost,
To see his ghastly stare. His eye is vague;
Is motionless. How like those shapes he grows,
That sit in stony whiteness over tombs,
Memorials of their cold inhabitants.
Speak! are you sunk to stone? What can you say
In your defence, sir? Turn your eyes away.
How dare you look at me, so steadily?
You shall be amorous no more. Must I
Rouse you? How idly his arms hang. Turn your eyes
Aside. I dare not touch him; yet I must.
Ha! he is dead—dead; slain by me! Great Heaven!
Forgive me; I'm a widow broken-hearted.
A mother too; 'twas for my child I struck.
Yon bloody man did press so hardly on us:
He would have torn my pretty bird from me:
I had but one: what could I do to save it?
There was no other way!