University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A PUBLIC PARK.
Enter ENRICO and PONLEVI in travelling dresses.
PONLEVI.
What a joyful thing it is,
After travel, to draw nigh
To one's native country!

ENRICO.
I
Ne'er have felt so great a bliss.

PONLEVI.
No, nor I so great a pain,
Since in sight of Florence, here,
After wandering far and near,
At this distance we remain;
Without going there to know
All the news that it hath got.

ENRICO.
'Tis that I may know it not
That I linger here.

PONLEVI.
If so,
I'm in doubt to praise or blame,
As there may be much to fear
That 'twere better not to hear,
Since that most loquacious dame,
Lady Absence, tattles so!—
But as you, in things of weight
Trust me, speak, I know your state.

ENRICO.
Listen then to what you know,—
I saw Lisida the fair,
Chloris' sister,—it is true:—

PONLEVI.
Yes, I know it, and that you
Have no wish but lives in her.

ENRICO.
Since as sisters, side by side,
Darts of love and of disdain,
Ever joined were seen the twain
In the walks, or windows wide,
Which of them, in truth, I wooed,
Which of them I sighed to serve,
I, the secret did preserve,
Thus, thy rigour, I subdued,
Chloris, it of course should be
Chloris, whom my service moved,
Were it Chloris that I loved,
Chloris would have hated me:—
I loved Lisida, and she,
Therefore, love for me did lose;
Love doth ever thus confuse
Fortunes: Chloris (woe is me!)
Favoured me: there's not of course
Time to tell how Fabio
(Sire to both) opposed—and so
I return to my discourse:
She such favour thus did show
Towards me, that it closed the way
To my love, which hidden lay,
Buried in my breast below.
For I thus could neither be
With one gentle lady rude,
Chloris thinking that I wooed
Her the first, much less that she
Whom I loved, my suit should gain,
Since unto her trembling breast
Was her sister's love confess'd—
Thus divided, hope is vain,—
Coward thus of courtesy,
Blind, unthanked, and full of sadness,
Loving Lisida to madness,
Chloris vainly loving me,
One I see, the other sigh for,
Worship one, and one seem wooing,
Loving one, and one pursuing,
One I seek, and one I die for,—
Thus doth joy, divided prove,
Grief remaining still entire,
Lisida I still desire,
Chloris still I cannot love.

PONLEVI.
Little trouble, if you knew,
This, by Jove, would give me.

ENRICO.
Why,
What would you have done?—

PONLEVI.
What, I?—
I would simply love the two;
And if Lisida adored me,
I, for Lisida, would die,
Chloris, I would bid good-bye,
If I thought that she abhorred me:
For beyond the fame that moves him,
Or the worth a man is showing,
With a woman is the knowing
That another woman loves him.

Enter LISIDA, CHLORIS, NISE, and CELIA, veiled.
CHLORIS.
Oh! how pleasant is this plain,
Palace home of plants and flowers!

LISIDA.
In the bright, green, fresh-leaved bowers,
In the sunny drops of rain,
May proclaims its happy reign!

ENRICO,
to Ponlevi.
Stay, behold who wander here!

CHLORIS.
No, 'tis false, this verdant sphere
Can a lovelier scene display
At the dawning of the day,
As when the sunbeams disappear.

NISE.
Can the changing moments make
Scenes so fair, still fairer seem?

CHLORIS.
Yes, Aurora's magic gleam
Brighter charms than these can wake.

NISE.
'Tis an error—a mistake,
Thus to give the crown of light
To the morn,—the starry night
Is the only queen.

ENRICO.
Señora,
Wrong not thus the fair Aurora,
Like yourself, a lady bright—
Being so, 'twere wrong to think
Aught but grateful love and duty
To that fair benignant beauty,—
In whose every breath we drink
The orange, jasmine and the pink,
To whose brightness Nature yields
The sovereign splendour of the day,
Whose fleeting sceptre hath more sway
Than that the prouder noontide wields;
It bringeth gladness to the fields,
And colour to the flowers and groves,
It is the season of the loves,
Harmonious hour of wakening birds—
How wrong to use disdainful words
To her whose perfectness reproves.

CHLORIS,
aside.
Ah! me, what form doth meet mine eye!

LISIDA,
aside.
Eyes! who is this that now you see?
Enrico! But if you must spy
Things scarcely possible, say why
'Tis thine to kill me? let me die
By the blind god's hands alone.

CHLORIS,
to NISE.
Speak thou, that we may not be known
Unto these two, and so pass by:—

NISE,
aside.
Yes, the attempt at least I'll try:—
Don Quixote of Aurora bright,
Say what imports it, that at dawn
Each dewy flower o'er earth's wide lawn
May drink the tears it wept at night?
Say, what imports the golden light
That tips the hills with roseate flame—
The drops of dew that put to shame
The tinted sea-shell's treasures pearly?
A lady, that must rise so early,
Can be no very noble dame!

ENRICO.
To rise 'mid interlacéd bars
Of summer woods and natural bowers—
To change for countless troops of flowers
The myriad armies of the stars—
This 'gainst no proper feeling jars:
If, where the green-boughs meet above,
She wanders, 'tis but to discover
The footsteps of her shepherd lover,—
'Twere less the lady if she strove
To sleep, when she should watch with love.

NISE.
Well, let her rise and roam the plain,
And woodlands wild, 'mid morning's dews,
Seeking her loves,—for me I choose,
With greater pleasure and less pain,
In evening's calm and tranquil reign,
Mine to enjoy, without a yawn
Or envy of the spangled lawn;
For to my mind 'tis clear display'd
But for the common herd, was made
This idle fancy for the dawn.
[A noise within.
But what noise is this I hear?

CELIA.
It is the carriage driving near,
Of the duke.

ENRICO.
The duke?

CELIA.
'Tis so.

CHLORIS.
Better then that we should go
To our own. Remain thou here,
And pardon us, Señor.

ENRICO.
But say,
Why such haste?

CHLORIS.
Because this way
He cometh after me, and I
Desire, unknown to pass him by.

ENRICO.
Perhaps this casualty may,
Without the breach of custom's laws,
Permit my wish to serve appear,
Which is to take away the fear
His coming here to you doth cause;
Here where the winding path withdraws
Into the highway, I shall go,
And then, by meeting him, shall so
Divert him, till you have time to gain
Your carriage, and depart again.

CHLORIS.
The thanks that for this act I owe,
At present with this scarf I pay,
Small gift with grateful feelings rife—
It is the ransom of my life.

[Gives him an azure scarf.
ENRICO.
Happy I am to serve you, may
I know to whom I owe....?

CHLORIS.
To-day
It cannot be.

[Exeunt CHLORIS and NISE.
LISIDA,
aside.
And now begin
Once more, O heavens! the mental din—
The heart's wild fears, the soul's eclipse—
Too small the prison of my lips
To chain the jealous fiend within,
But since I can beneath this veil
Avenge the burning pang I feel,
And with the shaft of jealousy
Strike dead the heart that makes mine die,
Let me the subtle poison deal:—
Sir, since we both so deeply owe
Our thanks to you, alike we glow
The debt of gratitude to pay—
Hers, let the azure scarf display,
Mine, by this flower I wish to show.

[Gives him a flower.
ENRICO.
But stay.

LISIDA.
Unless you wish to appear
Discourteous, do not follow me.

[Exit.
ENRICO.
My doubt and wonder seem to be
Greater, the more your words are clear.

PONLEVI,
to CELIA.
You, at the least, won't stir from here.

ENRICO,
to PONLEVI.
While, to detain the duke, I go,
Do thou attempt their names to know.

[Exit.
PONLEVI.
If this veiled dame, that hath delayed,
Is in one sense, a waiting maid—
She is a woman still, and so
Perforce must tell me all she knows.

CELIA.
Do not, my good gallant, suppose
That any maid or woman can
Give lessons to a married man,
What to permit and not disclose.

PONLEVI.
A good conceit, though rather low!
But since Saint Secret's day we know,
Is a feast day that's never kept,
Help me to work, thou dear adept,
Say, who are those that late did go?
And take....

CELIA.
It is a great temptation!

PONLEVI.
For every word your sweet mouth saith....

CELIA.
What am I then to take?

PONLEVI.
Take breath,
That you may make the whole narration:—

CELIA.
A great reward!

PONLEVI.
This compensation,
Though high, I offer for thy sake.

CELIA.
Well then, I say, that if I take
Breath, it is only but for one
Reason—

PONLEVI.
And that?

CELIA.
Is just to run.

[Exit.
PONLEVI.
What a Carthusian she would make!
Quick as the lightning off she flies,
And I will say, since I'm alone,
My heart she carries with her own:—
But by a lackey's wit and eyes,
And by my horse's life, as wise
In this adventure still am I;
My master and the duke are here,
This damsel I must still keep near,—
A waiting-maid and secresy
Some contradiction must imply.

[Exit.
Enter the DUKE, ENRICO, OCTAVIO, and attendants.
ENRICO.
Once again you must permit me
Kiss your hand.

DUKE.
Again Enrico
I rejoice to bid you welcome.

ENRICO.
He who comes with so much added
Honour, Lord, to kneel before you,
He who at thy feet doth see him,
They the sphere from which are shining
Greater light—a clearer sun
He indeed, must truly well come.

Enter FABIO.
FABIO.
Hither have I come to seek you,
That I may, before departing,
Kiss your hand, my lord.

DUKE.
'Tis lucky,
That Enrico hither comes,
Just in time by his arrival
To atone for your departure.

FABIO,
aside.
Ah! not so, 'tis most unlucky,
Since he staying here in Florence,
I, in Naples will not be
Free from manifold suspicions:
But still Chloris is my daughter,
And will prove how false they are.

[Exit.
DUKE.
How didst thou feel in Spain, Enrico?

ENRICO.
Even as one whose life's employment
Was to serve thee, gracious lord!
Though I went there at a moment,
Even if I were not thy servant,
Well my absence had been spent.

DUKE.
How?

ENRICO.
My lord, I found the country
Full of festivals and plaudits—
Noble proof of loyal feelings,
Noble evidence of love.

DUKE.
Even before thy tongue has spoken,
Well my longing hath declared,
That the cause of all those plaudits
Was the great act of the nobles
Swearing homage to Balthasar,
Prince Infante, he who is
Offspring of the sun and morning—
Beam of mingled light and beauty—
And since this is not a fitting
Time to speak about the business
Of your mission; and since I
Now have lost the hope of seeing
Her, who drew me to these groves,
I desire that you, Enrico,
Will divert my disappointment
For not meeting with that lady.

ENRICO.
Listen to me then, your highness,—
That thrice happy day on which
Keeps the Roman Church the memory
Of our Lord's Transfiguration,
And God's homage celebrateth,
Joining heaven itself therein,
Was a faint and distant shadow
Of the homage to Balthasar,
Since if in our estimation
Human deities are kings,
No less mystery is figured
By the day on which the earth
Paid the homage to Balthasar,
Than whereon to God, the heavens.
Well, upon this happy day,
With thick shadows covered over,
Rose the dawn, and the aurora,
Veiled in clouds of densest darkness,
Neither let the sun shine forth,
Nor allowed the stars of morning
To be heralds of its beauty;
And though I, at other periods,
Would perhaps to chance attribute
This blank absence of the sun,
It was not on this occasion
Accident, but strict obedience,
(Let the cause of this be hid in
A parenthesis at present,
For before my tale is over
The parenthesis I'll fill).
In the rich and royal temple
Of the Church's holy doctor,
He whose charity, whose fervour,
Reached to every living thing,
Was the greatest scene enacted
That the sun sees in his orbit—
From his rising in the ocean
To his setting in the sea.
At the foot of the great altar
Was a mighty stage erected,
Well adapted for the homage,
And upon the left hand swelling
Swung the curtain of the kings;
Ah! I speak not right, 'twas rather
One rich cloud of gold and nacre;
For, when brightly were unfolded
The three dazzling plaits of purple,
Light and majesty they threw,
Giving, like the bright gold, glitter,
Giving, like the nacre, pearls.
From his palace came the king,
At his side the queen, and followed
By the prince, to whom the homage
Would be sworn, his hands supported
By his uncles, the Infantes:
Never have I seen the spring-tide
Crowned with more abundant flowers,
Or the moon with brighter stars,
Than the beautiful French lily
Followed by the lovely train
Of her ladies, who still brighter
Shone, from shining in her presence.
Then they all their places took,
First, the king upon the right-hand
Of the queen, and the Infantes
Farther back, and on a little
Seat, before them, sat the prince;
Then alike in due gradation
Were the seats upon the left hand
Filled by prelates of the Church;
Three ambassadors then followed—
One from France, and Rome, and Venice,
And the magistrates in order:—
In the front were proudly stationed
The grandees and lesser nobles,
And the deputies of kingdoms
After these: I name not any,
Flattery here were but offensive;
Confirmation's sacred rite
Was the worthy ceremonial
Which commenced the day's first act;
Then to this, the oath of homage
Followed soon. With gallant bearing,
Modest and majestic both,
Lively, and in all things lovely,
Making reverence to all
Unto whom 'twas due, Don Carlos
Came the first to swear obedience;
He was followed by Fernando,
And as Spain doth take such glory,
Being Catholic, at seeing
These the oath of homage swearing,—
One the shining steel engirding,—
One the sacred diadem,—
It appeared to me as if
She with one loud tongue did utter
Happy! happy be the kingdom,
Happy without end or limit
She whose first and proudest triumph
Is achieved in arms and letters!—
Let us leave the ceremonials
At this point, for all the rest
Were akin to this ensample,
And go forth where fair Madrid
Waiteth for an heavenly Iris—
Where the crowded streets, so covered
With a beautiful confusion—
With confused and wondrous beauty
Into fields and seas are turning
Gilded robes and floating plumes;
Now the military music
Of the clarions and the trumpets
Give the welcome proclamation
Of the cavalcade's return.
In the order they were seated
Passed the chiefs of the procession
One by one, until approaching
Came the carriage of the queen;
In advance of it a little,
The Infantes came on horseback,
And beside her at the coach-door
Rode the king;—But let my tongue
Here be mute, and that late spoken
Marked parenthesis be filled;
When I said, if you remember,
That no sun appeared that morning,
That no dawn was seen, nor tidings
Gave the morning-star of day;
That not even the night permitted
Any stars to shine instead,—
The parenthesis now opened,
Let this sight be its completion,
And thou'lt see it was not chance,
But design, that hid the sunrise;
Since in Carlos and Fernando
Were two stars of morning shown—
They the great sun's beauteous brothers,
Whose bright beams his splendour feed.
In the place of the aurora
Rose a dawn of rarest beauty—
Isabel in golden carriage,
Which a thousand cupids guard;
If it be aurora's office
To give flowers, they were created
By her loveliness, for flowers
Are the fair French lily's escort;—
If it be the dazzling duty
Of the planet fourth in number
To illuminate the circle
Of its orbit—the fourth Philip
Was the planet of this heaven:
Child of sunlight and the morning
Passed along the purest star—
Round about enshrined in crystal,
Sheltered by transparent glass,—
If beside these stars of morning
Those of heaven are put to shame,—
If by her, who with aurora
Sweetly staketh flower with flower—
If by one whose radiant beaming
Doth the great sun's rays diminish—
If, in fine, by such a star,
Unto whom the sun pays homage,—
If to these, the stars of heaven
Were but dim and misty shadows,
Silent pomps—expiring lights—
Not, through accident, did Nature
Their bright rivalry refuse—
But design, for they were absent
Through the shame of being outdone.
But all allegory being
Laid aside, permit me further
To describe unto you Philip—
How with skill and noble bearing
Firmly he his proud steed managed—
And as this description springeth
Not from flattery, but truth—
It imports not if it seems so.
Of a bright-brown burning sorrel—
Of a fierce, ungoverned nature
Seemed to me the kingly brute—
In whose colour was depicted
The apologetic anger
Of the sun, that burned his skin,
That upon its shining surface,
In the noble beast's wild beauty
He might contemplate his own!
With such mettled pride he bounded,
That a single bound proclaimed
He could bear up a whole heaven:
Among brutes a living mountain—
Atlas turned to life 'mong beasts.
How can I find words to tell thee
Of the strong, proud disregard
With which he, unmindful of it,
Ground to dust the stony highway—
But by saying this alone,
That I only then discovered
What a fire was 'neath Madrid?—
For, where'er his hoof descended,
At the touch there seemed to ope
An abyss of fiery sparkles:
And as he, who touches fire,
Suddenly his hand withdraweth,
So the noble steed drew back,
With the same instinctive quickness,
His proud hoof from out the fire
That his hoof itself had kindled—
Making fear itself so graceful,
That his feet no more upheld him,
Cunningly upraised in air
With his boundings and curvettings.
As with man, so in the brute-world
Must a firm hand guide and rule it—
Thus the king controlled the monster
By the light rule of the reins:—
Shall I say, that when afar
Rang the clarions and the trumpets,
He compelled him dance in time,
With the foam-creating bridle?—
No, for this has oft been said:
Shall I say of horse and rider
That they were indeed but one?
No, for that were here unseemly:
Shall I say they formed a map,
Foam the sea, and earth the body—
Wind the soul, and fire the foot?
No, the thought were too conceited:—
Shall I say the gallant horseman
Lightly using boot and spur—
Ever at the coach door bending—
Firmly footed in the stirrups—
Using gracefully the arm—
Lowering now the hand, adjusting
Now the rein—his cloak divided—
With his body nicely balanced,
And with courteous face and bearing
Passed he thus along the highway
By the coach-door of the queen?
Yes, because the simple statement
Gives the most exact description.
Do not think that 'tis to flatter
That I thus describe the skilful
Horsemanship of Philip: no:—
For there was not an achievement
Which activity might reach to
In a cavalier, that he
Did not wondrously exhibit:—
And the simple school wherein
All his knighthood's lore was taught him
Was on horseback in the saddle.
If, my lord, his arms he practised,
He with sharp sword could apportion
Lessons learned from the foil;
If he went unto the chase—
Lively portraiture of warfare—
He with arquebuse could cover
Every thing that flew or ran;
With the pencil he appeareth
Wondrous Nature's new creator—
And in melody, his skill
Music's inmost soul hath reach'd to:
In a word, of all the arts,
There are none of which he knows not,
And supreme perfection reaches,
Without lengthened toil or effort.
Oh! that fortune then would be—
Oh! that heaven would be propitious—
Since they have allowed his seeing
This great act of homage offered
With such loyal demonstrations
Of true faith and strong affection
To the fair prince of Asturias—
That they will a god of battle
Show him to the tented field,
Trampling down the routed rebels
Under his heroic feet,—
And the Church's banners rearing,
So that every thing may turn
To his honour and our glory.

DUKE.
I would have been more delighted,
Henry, by this tale of thine—
If I could have disunited
From this troubled heart of mine
A deep trouble that doth blight it;
But though sorrow be increased
By proclaiming it—still I
Feel, my friend, that I, at least,
Owe your statement a reply,—
Hear the pain with which I die,
In requital of a feast:—
How, I know not, (woe is me!)
To begin it, but to be
Pitied to the extent I'm smitten,
I, a sonnet that I've written
On the affair will read to thee:
A frozen mountain on my bosom lay,
Round which time twined a coronal of snow,
While the warm heart fed fondly far below
The ashes of a fire that burned alway.
A beauteous beam—the wonder of the day—
Down to that time with kindling torch did go,
The snow encircled by the fire did glow,
The fire by snow congealed to ice straightway.
Etna at once of love and anguish deep—
The ashes of my heart ascending higher,
Burning my heart, compelled my eyes to weep,
O living mountain! blind volcanic pyre!
If thou art flame—how canst thou water keep?
Alas! the tears of love themselves are fire!

ENRICO.
If, my lord, I may presume—
This golden verse doth nothing prove,
It merely paints the common doom
Of human kind—that thou'rt in love,
But it does not tell with whom.
This bashful secrecy despise—
Tell me the cause of all your sighs.

DUKE.
I think that when the name you hear,
A well-known name it will appear,
One whom unknown you still should prize.

ENRICO.
I?

DUKE.
Even so: I have the bliss
To love a maid, whose like is not
On earth.

ENRICO.
Your meaning still I miss.

DUKE.
Two daughters hath not Fabio got?

PONLEVI,
aside.
My master's troubled much at this.

ENRICO,
aside.
Merciful Heaven! what's this I hear?
Can it be Lisida he means,
Or Chloris? Ah! with jealous fear
Once more I die!— [aloud]
A doubt still screens
The mistress that to thee is dear—
For yet I do not know but she
Chloris or Lisida may be,
Or which thy tender love doth wake.

DUKE.
The very doubt is thy mistake;
For who could doubt, whose eyes can see
The difference 'twixt a flower and rose—
Or rose compared with some bright star,
Which in a nobler empire glows,
And scattering lustrous light afar,
Round it the beams of beauty throws?
Lisida is....

ENRICO,
aside.
Ah!

DUKE.
The bud before it blows;
But Chloris is the perfect rose.

ENRICO.
'Tis so. [aside]
Now who would e'er believe
That I so gladly could receive
Dispraise of her I peerless deem?

DUKE.
Chloris, in fine, my heart doth move,
And sighs, tears, sorrows makes me prove.

ENRICO.
To weep, to suffer, and to sigh,
Is not to love,—it is to die.

DUKE.
Is it then more to die than love?

OCTAVIO.
Though in silence I have heard
Your complaints, through consolation,
Still I think you have preferr'd
Charges, without much foundation,
Against Chloris, and so err'd;
If to all your amorous wooing
She, more candid than severe,
Doth permit of your pursuing—
If when evening draweth near
Oft thy letters she is viewing—
If, my lord, attentive ever
To thy wish, when night's stars gleam,
She, with condescending favour,
Makes her room an academe,
Where love's light lore supplies the graver:—
Vain, my lord, must be your sorrow,
Hills turn plains when love is thorough;
For myself at least I'll say,
She who lists to you to-day
Will reply to you to-morrow.

DUKE.
Ah! how little thou dost know
About love, Octavio!—
He who wisely loves would rather
Any scorn or favour gather
Than without these love-gifts go;
For the heart can never prove
Deeper pain, than feel a love
Of whose scornings we complain not,
And whose favourings enchain not—
Nought to praise or to reprove.
Since without them we must be
Joy or sorrow fancy free,—
Saddest sight the earth is seeing
Is the lover, pleased with being
Loved as 'twere through courtesy.

[Exit.
ENRICO.
What a tyrant Love doth reign!

OCTAVIO.
Well, I do not feel the chain;
'Tis to me a flowery noose—
Though a pain to have or lose,
I could live without the pain.

ENRICO.
Do you also mean to say
That thou art enamoured?

OCTAVIO.
He
Who beholds another play
At his side doth often be
Grieved when fortune flies away
From the side that he is on,—
Thus I saw the duke at play,
Saw him play till hope was gone,
Then I likewise lost, by one
Self-same beauteous planet's ray
Burned.

ENRICO.
Doth one house possess
Your love and the duke's, then?

OCTAVIO.
Yes.

PONLEVI,
aside.
When our hands a knot undo,
Fate presenteth one anew,—
Now he feels the deep distress
Of friendship struggling with his love.

ENRICO,
aside.
Whom doth Fate more strictly prove?—
If thy dazzled heart from thee
[Aloud.
Sunlike Chloris' shade hath won,
Lisida, who late could be
But thy star, must be thy sun.

OCTAVIO.
Ah! my friend, it is not she.

ENRICO,
aside.
God! how grateful I do feel!

PONLEVI,
aside.
What, not she? This wheel on wheel,
This whirling puzzle ne'er will end?

OCTAVIO.
As thou art my trusted friend,
I from thee can nought conceal.

ENRICO.
Thou my friendship knowest well.

OCTAVIO.
With the sisters there doth dwell
A fair cousin, a bright creature,
Whom from head to foot, each feature
Stamps a living miracle
Of rare beauty. This loved woman,
Whose divine perfections are
More angelical than human,
Is the beauteous beam—the star—
Is the heaven my heart consuming:—
But I do not wish to be her
Praiser, since we go to see her,
When my friendship hopes, that you
May advise me not to woo,
But worship as in heaven's own sphere.

[Exit.
ENRICO.
And from this, I say it now:—
Tell me, Ponlevi, didst thou
Witness my two terrors?

PONLEVI.
Master,
I beheld your whole disaster,
Saw, 'twixt love and friendship, how—
'Twixt your friend and lord likewise,
You did so soliloquise,
That for numberless pretences,
Every moment your seven senses
Were at work.

ENRICO.
My fears and sighs
Have been wholly turned to gladness.

PONLEVI.
It will not restore your sadness
Very poignantly, or greatly,
To be told that those whom lately
You addressed so in your madness,
Were the ladies above stated.

ENRICO.
Who to thee has this related?

PONLEVI.
Soon repenting her moroseness,
And her unofficial closeness,
This to me their maid narrated.

ENRICO.
Oh! then from this doubt relieve me,
Which of them this scarf did give me?
Which did give this beauteous flower?

PONLEVI.
This is quite beyond my power,
Difficult to tell, believe me.

ENRICO.
Late the happiest of men,
I am wretched once again:
For I know not which to prize
Of these gifts, or which despise.

PONLEVI.
I yet hope to tell thee then;
If to-day again I meet them
I on thy account will greet them
With an air of courtly fashion,
For when surge the waves of passion,
Even the lightest winds that beat them
Mark the surface; thus the breast
In the face is oft confess'd.

ENRICO.
Go, explore that troubled wave,
Find that Lisida but gave
Either gift, and I am blest:—
If one is like a poison'd breath,
The other comes with healing rife—
Safe whatever Fortune saith,—
By my death securing life,—
By my life securing death.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—THE GARDEN OF FABIO'S HOUSE.
Enter NISE and CHLORIS.
NISE.
Here where, tenderly complaining,
The murmuring fountain crystal tears is raining,
Trust, dear cousin mine,
Unto my love this secret love of thine.

CHLORIS.
Enrico is in sooth
(Here let us linger, Nise) the most courteous youth,
The bravest and most wise
Throughout all Florence, or Dame Rumour lies.
I do not say I loved,
Or that I wished his heart should e'er be moved
To love me; all I know
Is, that it would not grieve me if 'twere so.
Thus on life went,
I neither loving, nor indifferent,
When the god that wakes desire
Breathed on the ashes and lit up the fire:—
I need not say with what a grateful pride
My heart replied,
Repaying love's sweet favours with my yielding soul,
For when thou know'st my grief, thou know'st the whole;
This sweet compulsion, this soft strife,
Was by his absence swiftly brought to life,
Since it allowed the duke
To visit me and plead his passion in his look:
And I—so high his loyal soul I deem,—
Fear that his love may reach the other extreme.

Enter LISIDA.
LISIDA.
Let not this darksome night
Envy the morning's beauteous pomp of light,
Since even that glory is outshone
By a more bright Aurora, and new dawn.

Enter PONLEVI.
PONLEVI.
If perchance a new arrival
Who has little shame to spare,
May presume to take the freedom
Just to enter where he likes,
Give to me your twice three slippers,
That I may this instant kiss
The three gold-embroidered bases
Of three columns of pure snow.

NISE,
to CHLORIS.
Who is this buffoon, fair cousin?

Chloris,
aside.
Servant unto one away.

NISE,
aside.
Ah! I understand.

LISIDA,
aside.
Dissemble
Now my heart, since 'tis thy fate:—
Ponlevi, how dost thou feel?

[Aloud.
PONLEVI.
He, Señora, feels quite well,
Full of gladness and contentment.

LISIDA.
Who?

PONLEVI.
My master, for of him
Do you wish to know: 'tis little
Matter how I feel: but you
Need not soar to such a distance
Like a Norway falcon.

LISIDA.
Thou
Comest back as sharp as ever.

PONLEVI.
Virtue never can be lost.

LISIDA.
Say, is Spain a noble country?

PONLEVI.
Beyond doubt, most excellent.

LISIDA.
Lovely women?

PONLEVI.
He did never
Speak with one the whole year through.

LISIDA.
Whom do you speak of?

PONLEVI.
Why, my master,
Whom thou seekest to find out:—
Do not take so many turnings
When the race-course is so short.

NISE.
Then his taste must be imperfect.

PONLEVI.
No, it is extremely good,
Shown by loving you.

NISE.
Me also?

PONLEVI.
Yes?

NISE.
But how could love arise
Without his seeing me?

PONLEVI.
Quite easy;
If he saw you, 'twere no wonder
That he loved you; I am certain
Were he even born blind,
He would love you without seeing.

CHLORIS.
But one fickle heart 'mongst three,
Say, how can it be divided?

PONLEVI.
'Tis my master's sole command,
That I no one must dispirit,
For his case is so extreme
Lest, perchance, one love miscarry,
Always to have two in hand;
So to show my strict obedience,
I but say, Deum de deo,
Or he loves from day to day.

Enter CELIA.
CELIA.
At the gate the duke is waiting.

CHLORIS.
What vexation!

CELIA.
With him come
Both Octavio and Enrico.

CHLORIS,
aside.
Thanks to love! that even the duke
Sometimes can a welcome visit
Pay to me:—Admit his Grace.

Enter the DUKE, OCTAVIO, and ENRICO; lights are introduced.
CHLORIS.
Here your Highness, 'neath this tree,
'Mid the cool air may rejoice.

DUKE.
Love doth neither give a choice
Nor doth sadness leave me free;
If 'tis given to me to see
But thy beauty, 'tis all one
Where my careless steps are gone,
Be it garden, grove, or room,
Heaven it must be, I presume,
Where doth shine so bright a sun.

The DUKE sits down upon a garden-seat, and CHLORIS on another; the ladies also on either side.
OCTAVIO,
to ENRICO.
Does she not, this mistress mine,
All my praise surpass by far?

ENRICO.
She deserves to be a star,
Since to her such charms divine
Must thy dazzled heart incline.

OCTAVIO.
Time and place are both propitious
Now to speak to her my wishes.

ENRICO.
As a stranger, they, I fear
Will avail me little here.

LISIDA.
Who could have been so malicious,
As, Enrico, to bestow
On thee this, since they must know
It may make some bosom swell
Jealously?

ENRICO.
And so, do well.

LISIDA.
Not that I am jealous, no,
'Tis but fancy.

ENRICO.
I confess
I your meaning cannot guess.

LISIDA.
Jealousy you let one wreak,
Not revenge: this scarf can speak.

ENRICO.
And this beauteous flower no less.

LISIDA.
Whose colour tells your hopes must be
Turned to jealousy's green hue.

CHLORIS,
aside.
Heavens! what sight is this I view?
It is my sister's flower, ah, me!
They kill me both, with jealousy.

DUKE.
What is it that disturbs thee so?

CHLORIS.
Naught.

DUKE.
And there thy glances throw?

CHLORIS,
aside.
A potent grief! a powerful pain!—
Enrico's coming home again,
[Aloud.
This passing interest made me show:—

ENRICO.
I an occasion hoped to gain,
Sen̄ora, thy fair hand to kiss.

LISIDA,
aside.
Heart! and must thou suffer this?

CHLORIS.
That you left the court of Spain
But recently, is very plain,
From the gifts with which you come.

ENRICO.
You see them quickly.

CHLORIS.
I have some
Experiences, which ne'er betray,
Nor do they now.

ENRICO.
And what are they?

CHLORIS.
This scarf and flower on breast and plume
Love's favours seem, unless I err.

ENRICO.
What is mere chance should not appear
A proof of favour.

CHLORIS.
If it were,
Which of the two would you prefer?

ENRICO,
aside.
How shall I fitly answer her
As well as Lisida?

CHLORIS.
Without
An answer, are you?

ENRICO.
Not through doubt
Of what to say my thought I mask,
But simple wonder love should ask;
I would prefer, with lips devout
Kissing it o'er and o'er again,
That which a lady veiled to-day
Gave me.

CHLORIS,
aside.
He knows me, why delay?—
But if there had been two, what then?

[Aloud.
ENRICO,
aside.
Who was e'er pressed in this close way?—
With me, the foremost place should boast
[Aloud.
The gift of her I loved the most.

CHLORIS.
Which of the two is that? declare.

ENRICO.
That which the fairest hue doth bear,
Better than words will tell almost.

NISE.
As questions of disdain and love—
Fond problems of the troubled breast—
Ever divert the duke the best,
Let us this casual doubt remove,
And find what colour best doth prove.

ENRICO.
This is not now the time or place
For private favours, as his Grace
Has his own loves to think of.

DUKE.
No,
I shall be pleased:

ENRICO,
aside.
And I, not so.

CHLORIS.
If from two colours we can trace
The yet all phantom form of her
Enrico loves, methinks the blue
Must be the pure and peerless hue
Which before all he doth prefer.

LISIDA.
I, if from colour we infer
The soul's dear choice, must state my creed
Is in the green.

ENRICO.
'Tis mine to heed
The argument, and learn from it
The excellency of your wit:—
Prithee proceed.

LISIDA.
I thus proceed:
Green is the colour God doth fling
First on the naked world, a dress
Which doth increase its loveliness—
It is the colour of the spring.
The fairest sight the seasons bring
Is that green ornament that sees,
Voiceless and breathless 'neath the trees,
The many-tinted flowers take birth
On the green cradle of the earth—
The trembling stars of every breeze.

CHLORIS.
Earthly that colour and must die
And fading quickly ne'er be seen—
But when the ground is clothed with green
Transparent azure lights the sky,
Spring hangs her azure veil on high
Where myriad living lights are thrown
Over the sky like flowers full blown,—
Say which, more richly Nature dowers,
An earthly heaven o'erhung with flowers
Or heaven's bright field with stars o'erstrown?

LISIDA.
This seeming colour mocks our eyes,
As if its bright cerulean glow
Indeed were real: but we know
There is no colour in the skies:
Heaven with this brilliant falsehood lies—
This azure fiction of the blue:—
If we no other reason heard
But this, the green should be preferr'd—
One boasts a fair fictitious hue
And one whose lovelier shade is true.

CHLORIS.
Not real colour I confess
Is the sky's azure: but I know
'Tis better for not being so.
Were it indeed its actual dress
It would require but little stress
To prove its greater beauty. This
Must be, I hold, the cause of his
Election, if he choose the blue,
Since even though feigned it hath a hue
Fairer than that, how true it is.

LISIDA.
The green speaks hope, which always we
As love's most precious offering prize,
At least so she may say, whose eyes
That figured freshness ne'er will see,
The azure speaks of jealousy,
And fickle change—two fiends that well
Know how to blight where'er they dwell,
What matters, then, if love is given
To wear perchance the hue of heaven,
If it must feel the pains of hell?

CHLORIS.
He who on hope doth live alone,
For that but slightly praised must be,
But he who loves with jealousy
Inscribes his love on bronze or stone,
'Tis thus its steadfastness is known,
Not weakly lost when hope is o'er,
He who, though jealous, doth adore
Shows what a faithful heart hath he,
Since in the hell of jealousy
He can not hope for favour more.

LISIDA.
To hope is then the happier lot.

CHLORIS.
But to be jealous more discreet.

LISIDA.
Green is the flower so fresh and sweet.

CHLORIS.
The scarf is azure, is it not?

LISIDA.
Well, and what matters that?

CHLORIS.
And what
Matters the other?

LISIDA.
But in fine
Think not the flower is mine.

CHLORIS.
Nor mine
The scarf.

[They both arise.
LISIDA.
But if 'twere so......

CHLORIS.
How would you act?

LISIDA.
I do not know.

DUKE.
Now in God's name the strife resign,
No bitter words will sour the sweets
Of this rare feast of wit I trust,
Go not away.

LISIDA.
Indeed I must,
Not to hear more such vain conceits.

[Exit.
CHLORIS.
'Tis not the winner that retreats.
Neither would I hear more: and so
Flying from hence I wish to go,
If I have got your Grace's leave.

[Exit.
DUKE.
That beauty ever doth receive.

ENRICO.
What has just passed I scarcely know.

DUKE.
Thou art, Enrico, amongst men
The happiest lover now alive,
For some, to thee love favours give,
And others quarrel 'bout them then.

ENRICO.
This hath their colour done, 'tis plain,
And not my fortune.

DUKE.
O strong power
Of fate!

[Exit.
OCTAVIO.
What grief!

[Exit.
NISE.
'Tis envy's hour,
Who walks about in love's own hue!

[Exit.
ENRICO.
Heavens! for a scarf, what dire distress!
Heavens! what distress about a flower!

[Exit.