University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—THE PARK AND GARDENS.
Enter FREDERICK and FABIO, in travelling dresses, and HENRY.
Henry.
Frederick, I cannot persuade me,
That the letter of the duchess
Had a more mysterious meaning
Than what it appears to be;
Namely, but a courteous answer
To the one I lately brought:—
And she merely sent you with it
For the adventitious honour
That the bearer might impart;
Thinking doubtless it were proper,
I, the duke's relation seeming,
That her messenger should equal
His in point of birth and rank.
Do not fear that she suspecteth
Who I am: and so the best
Plan for you is, thus pretending
That from Mantua you come
With this letter, which I give you.
She will never dream or doubt,
Seeing here my hand and signet,
But that there you must have been.

FREDERICK.
Though I recognise with clearness
All these reasons, and your letter
Leaves no doubt upon the subject
That your person is unknown;
Still the fact of her commanding
My departure yester-evening,
When a lady had appointed
Secretly to speak with me;
That same lady then declaring
That her highness had discovered,
How or when she could not tell me,
All about that trysting-time,—
When I feel her reputation
Stands in peril every moment;
All these thoughts must leave me, Henry,
Some remaining grounds of grief.

HENRY.
'Tis a subject that requireth
Greater leisure: take the letter,
Let us kill the first suspicion,
And the second soon shall die,
Almost of itself; the letter,
Frederick, take, and so adieu.

FREDERICK.
Will you not approach the palace?—

HENRY.
Surely yes; if it in all things
Is the country of my soul,
It its very sphere and centre,
Every instant that it liveth
Out of it, it lives in pain.

Exit.
FABIO.
Must a man of honour bear this?

FREDERICK.
What do you complain of, Fabio?

FABIO.
I complain, my lord, of naught;
Merely ask a calculation
Of the time I thee have served:
If for every hour you gave me
What you give me for a year,
I declare to God, another
Hour I would not wish to serve.

FREDERICK.
Why?

FABIO.
Because my luckless noddle
Is turned topsy-turvy thinking,
And there's not enough of money
Up and down the world, to pay
Any servant who must think of
All the bedlam things you say.

FREDERICK.
How prove this?

FABIO.
Just in this way:
Fabio! I am dying, Fabio;
This is my last living day,—
Hope and life shall die together;
Shall I order then your hearse?
I inquire, and you replying,
Answer—No, I shall not die,
For the night that is approaching
Shall be glorious day to me:—
I am very glad to hear it:—
Fabio!—Master! I must go
On a journey, get two horses
Ready-saddled—it is done:—
Now I shall not go, but bring them,—
Mount on one; I do: how far
Have we gone? A league: then homeward,
Turn about: and so we turn;
Let us seek at once our dwelling;
Mind you follow not my steps;—
And a thousand contradictions,
Little secrets without end,
Which the devil could not fathom.
For, in fine, I do not like
Any master who thus deals in,
Without being Pope or Pontiff,
Cases rightly called “reserved.”

FREDERICK.
Silence; for her highness cometh.
Mind, remember what I said;
That by no means you discover
How nor you nor I were absent
Out of Parma all last night.

FABIO.
Oh! of course:—now I am dying
[Aside.
To reveal it to Flerida,
For three simple reasons: first,
To regale my tongue a little;
Secondly, for vengeance' sake;
Thirdly, to oblige her highness.

Exit.