University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

A Room in Don Cesar's House.—Enter Don Cesar and Lazaro meeting.
Laz.
A letter, sir, Elvira just gave me.

Ces.
A letter! Give it me. How long have you had it?

Laz.
I looked for you first at the Prince's.

Ces.
Where I was not?

Laz.

You know it! I am always looking for what cannot
be found in time. But if you like the letter I shall
claim my largess for all that.

Ces.

Ah! what does she say?

Laz.

The folly, now, of a man with his watch in his hand
asking other people for the time of day!

Ces.

My heart fails me. Even if your news be good it
comes late.

[He reads the letter.
Laz.
So let my reward then—only let it come at last.

Ces.
O Lazaro, half drunk with my success,
I lose my wits when most I've need of them.
She writes to me, my lady writes to me
So sweetly, yea, so lovingly;
Methinks I want to tear my bosom open,
And lay this darling letter on my heart.
Where shall I shrine it?

Laz.
Oh, if that be all,
Keep it to patch your shoe with; I did so once
When some such loving lady writ to me,
And it did excellently; keeping tight
Her reputation, and my shoe together.

Ces.
O Lazaro! good Lazaro! take for this
The dress I wore at Florence.

Laz.
Bless you, sir.

Ces.
My letter! oh my lady!

Laz.
I bethink me
Upon remembrance, sir, as I may say,
The pockets of that dress were very large
And empty.

Ces.
They shall be well lined. Don Arias!

Enter Don Arias.
Ar.
Ay, Cesar, Arias coming to complain
On his own score, and that of one far greater.

Ces.
A solemn preamble. But for the charge,
And him who heads it.

Ar.
The Prince, our common Lord,
Who much perplext and troubled too, Don Cesar,
About the melancholy that of late
(No need say more of that which best you know)
Has clouded over you, has askt of me
Whom he will have to be your bosom friend,
The cause of it.—Alas, 'tis very plain
I am not what he thinks.—Well, I am come,
Say not as friend, but simple messenger,
To ask it of yourself.

Ces.
You do yourself
And me wrong, Arias; perchance the Prince—
But yet say on.

Ar.
His Highness bids me say
That if your sadness rise from any sense
Of straiten'd power, whatever residue
Of princely rule he hitherto reserved,
He gives into your hands; as sov'reign lord
To govern his dominions as your own.
Thus far his Highness. For myself, Don Cesar,
Having no other realm to lord you of
Than a true heart, I'd have you think betimes,
That, deep as you are rooted in his love,
Nay, may be all the more for that, he feels
Your distaste to his service, and himself:
I'd have you think that all a subject's merits,
However highly heap'd, however long,
Still are but heaps of sand, that some new tide
Of royal favour may wash clean away,
One little error cancelling perhaps
The whole account of life-long services.
Be warn'd by me; clear up your heavy brow,
And meet his kind looks with a look as kind,
Whatever cloud be on the heart within:
If not your friend, Don Cesar, as your servant
Let me implore you.

Ces.
Oh, Don Arias,
I kiss his Highness' feet, and your kind hands
That bring his favours to me: and to each
Will answer separately. First, to him;—
Tell him I daily pray that Heav'n so keep
His life, that Time, on which his years are strung,
Forget the running count; and, secondly,
Assure him, Arias, the melancholy
He speaks of not a jot abates my love
Of him, nor my alacrity in his service;
Nay, that 'tis nothing but a little cloud
In which my books have wrapt me so of late
That, duty done, I scarce had time or spirit
Left to enjoy his gracious company:
Perhaps too, lest he surfeit of my love,
I might desire by timely abstinence
To whet his liking to a newer edge.
Thus much for him. For you, Don Arias,
Whose equal friendship claims to be repaid
In other coin, I will reveal to you
A secret scarcely to myself confest,
Which yet scarce needs your thanks, come at a moment
When my brimm'd heart had overflow'd in words,
Whether I would or no. Oh, Arias,
Wonder not then to see me in a moment
Flying from melancholy to mere joy,
Between whose poles he ever oscillates,
Whose heart is set in the same sphere with mine:
Which saying, all is said. I love, my friend;
How deeply, let this very reticence,
That dare not tell what most I feel, declare.
Yes, I have fixt my eyes upon a star;
Toward which to spread my wings ev'n against hope,
Argues a kind of honour. I aspir'd,
And (let not such a boast offend the ears,
That of themselves have open'd to my story,)
Not hopelessly: the heav'n to which I pray'd
Answer'd in only listening to my vows;
Such daring not defeated not disdain'd.
Two years I worshipp'd at a shrine of beauty,
That modesty's cold hand kept stainless still;
Till wearied, if not mov'd by endless prayers,
She grants them; yea, on this most blessed day,
With this thrice blessed letter. You must see it,
That your felicitations by rebound
Double my own; the first victorious trophy
That proud ambition has so humbly won.
Oh Arias, 'tis much I have to tell,
And tell you too at once; being none of those
Who overmuch entreaty make the price
Of their unbosoming; who would, if they knew
In what the honour of their lady lies,
Name her at once, or seal their lips for ever.
But you are trusty and discreet: to you
I may commit my heart; beseeching you
To keep this love-song to yourself alone,
Assigning to the Prince, remember this,
My books sole cause of my abstraction.
Donna Anna de Castelvi—
(I can go on more freely now the name
Of her I worship bars my lips no more,)
Is she who so divides me from myself,
That what I say I scarcely know, although
I say but what I feel: the melancholy
You ask about, no gloomy sequestration
Out of the common world into a darker,
But into one a thousand times more bright;
And let no man believe he truly loves,
Who lives, or moves, or thinks, or hath his being
In any other atmosphere than Love's,
Who is our absolute master; to recount
The endless bead-roll of whose smiles and tears
I'd have each sleepless night a century.
Much have I said—have much more yet to say!
But read her letter, Arias, the first seal
Of my success, the final one, I think,
Of my sure trust in you; come, share with me
My joy, my glory, my anxiety;
And above all things, once more, Arias,
Down to your secret'st heart this secret slip;
For every secret hangs in greater fear
Between the speaker's mouth and hearer's ear,
Than any peril between cup and lip.

Ar.
You have good cause for joy.

Cesar.
You will say so
When you have read the letter.

Ar.
You desire it. (Reads.)

“To confess that one is loved is to confess that one loves
too; for there is no woman but loves to be loved. But
alas, there is yet more. If to cover my love I have pretended
disdain, let the shame of now confessing it excuse
me. Come to me this evening and I will tell you what I
can scarce understand myself. Adieu, my love, adieu!”

Your hands are full indeed of happy business.

Ces.
Enough: you know what you shall tell the Prince
In my behalf: if he be satisfied
I'll wait on him directly.

Ar.
Trust to me.

Ces.
Let my sighs help thee forward, O thou sun,
What of thy race in heaven remains to run:
Oh do but think that Dafne in the west
Awaits thee, and anticipate thy rest!

[Exeunt Cesar and Lazaro.
Ar.
Charg'd with two secrets,
One from my Prince the other from my friend,
Each binding equally to silence, each
Equally the other's revelation needing,
How shall I act, luckless embosomer
Of others' bosoms! how decide between
Loyalty and love with least expense to both!
The Prince's love is but this morning's flower,
As yet unsunn'd on by his lady's favour;
Cesar's of two years' growth, expanded now
Into full blossom by her smiles and tears;
The Prince too loves him whom his lady loves,
And were he told, might uncontested leave
The prize that one he loves already owns;
And so both reap the fruit, and make the excuse
Of broken silence, if it needs must break.
And yet I grope about, afraid to fall
Where ill-advised good-will may ruin all.

[Exit.