THE DUKE OF MANTUA.

ACT I.--SCENE I.

_A Room in the Duke's Palace at Mantua._

_Enter the DUKE and RIDOLFI._

RIDOLFI.

Hermione again visits my house.-- Your presence, good my lord, with your fair dame, I would solicit.

DUKE.

Well, Ridolfi, be it so:--to-day, If nought forbid the time:--Hermione, Thou say'st?--I do remember, yet so slight, 'tis scarce The shadow of her form. But once, my brother, 'Twas one fair summer's eve, awhile I saw Thy sprightly coz: a laughter-loving spirit, She threw quick mirth as the unbidden shafts Of innocent love, scattering with hand profuse Her joyous pranks. I was but newly wedded, Scarce past the honey-moon; Beatrice hung Fondly upon mine arm, and we too laugh'd, On that still night, until the whisp'ring woods Grew loud, and thousand voices started forth From bough and h.o.a.ry stem, bursting as if To riotous life; and yet her giddy face, Playful and changing as the restless wave, I cannot fashion now from memory's storehouse-- How fares thy cousin?

RIDOLFI.

Still by love, my lord, She comes untamed; but time, one delicate shade Hath slightly pa.s.s'd upon her wanton mirth, Softening the ruder bursts of her high spirit, Tinged ofttime now with gentler thought.

DUKE.

'Tis well When ripening years mellow the gaudy hue Of youth's rich fancies, sparkling else too bright For its repose.----We visit thee to-day.-- This tribute say we give Hermione.

RIDOLFI.

Much honour hold we from your presence: Our poorer hospitality excuse, As you are wont. Adieu! No costly feast We give, but our glad welcome. [_Exit._

DUKE.

A brother still,--a friend To cheer my way through life's dark wilderness.

Thou art a feeble light, and yet I love To watch thy tremulous blaze, blessing the gloom, And shedding round my path its thousand gems, Sprinkling perchance some loathed and hideous form With thy pale gleam. How tender hast thou been To my worst weaknesses, my foibles, all Heart-withering cares! Though born to humbler honours, I call thee friend. Well hast thou earn'd from me That sacred name! One bosom nourish'd us: One hand our childhood rear'd; twining we grew Unto one stem, till riches and high birth Bore me brief s.p.a.ce from that beloved soil,-- That home, to which our very nature yet Seems most akin.---- Of proud descent, unsullied as mine own, Thou yet canst boast: if not of t.i.tled wealth, Of outward garb, thy suit becomes thee well; And I do love thee more than if array'd In ducal coronet. Beatrice too Hath prized him for my sake, and her esteem I do repay with tenfold love.---- Fierce, feverish love!--thine idle dreams,--fleeting As cloud-fed vapour, yon o'erarching bow Bestrides,--fade as the sunbeam on the sky Dispels the glowing mist. 'Tis well, if then The welkin clear'd, each circ.u.mstance and form,-- Fashion'd realities by truth impress'd Upon the craving eye-b.a.l.l.s,--O 'tis well If on these fix'd and palpable images Of roused and wakening sense, the eye may rest With unappeased delight! But if the while Love's light-wing'd visions fade, nought fills the void Save chilling wastes, trackless, unlimited, That echo back their own grim desolation To the appalled spirit. What escape The shrinking soul is left, save one dark path To unappointed death? I thank thee, Heaven, Thou sparest me this trial! Love hath still With proud esteem held equal sway: in peace, Untroubled they divide their several empire.---- But I must hence; Beatrice I would greet First with these tidings of Hermione. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A Hall in the House of Ridolfi._

_Enter Servants, preparing for an Entertainment._

ROLAND.

Help me with this wine, Stephano.

STEPHANO.

Help thee? yea, my wishes be thy help. I hope thou wilt have unhelped speed.

ROLAND.

Truce to thy wit, comrade, for it helpeth me not, save an' my fingers to this cudgel, and thine hide to a basting.

STEPHANO.

Nay, spare thy wit, and thy cudgel to boot: mine hide endureth it not tenderly. If I should wince, thou mightest come to harm. A dainty flagon this: would that thy mouth were as dry as my lips, and our bellies had changed occupants! Thy lazy body would be lighter, methinks, and I better able to carry thee.----

ROLAND.

The Lady Hermione! Oh, how I do love her sweet face, Stephano! She smiles an' it were so temptingly when she speaks! "Good Roland," says she, "give me of that wine."--"Kind Roland, do go to the bath, and carry my little spaniel:"--or thus, "Honest master Roland, pray take my basket, and bring me thy master's garden mittens." This house, I trow, Stephano, she makes like to some gay palace, when she visits it; as pleasant and full of goodness as the Duke's pantry, who comes to the feast to-day. She was here some two years agone, and I thought I should have pined away at heart when she left.

STEPHANO.

Tush! thou star-stricken marmoset! Is she not a woman? Are not all women as full of deceit as their grandmothers? Is not Eve's flesh upon the bones of the very best jade in Christendom? and this blowzy-bell of thine, beshrew me, has no better a covering than the rest of 'em. This dainty hoyden thou delightest to worship, man, can be as chary of her winning looks as any of her sisterhood; and if I have not seen a storm brewing in her face, I have seen a water-spout in her eye, marry, which is almost fathomless. Mark me, Roland; if any good comes of her mummery, I am no true prophet, that's all.

ROLAND.

Envious in this, I do guess, Stephano. Why does she not smile on thee--eh? Thy stupid face, seamed like a beggar's coat; thy marvellous bright eyes and small nostrils; or, mayhap, I might the rather mean, thy marvellous bright nostrils and small eyes, make tears come into her delicate organs by sympathy, like the stroke of a dull razor. I tell thee, man, she cannot smile fronting thy mis-shapened countenance. I know many gentlewomen that bear not an ugly serving-man about them; and the delicate Hermione, I should bethink me, hath aversion to such.--I like her the better, Stephano, for thine ugliness.

STEPHANO.

Thou mis-shapen cur, time serves not to correct thee. What! dost brag if thy grinning leer provoke her mirth? "Sweet Roland," ah, "good Roland,"

put thy nose to the curling irons, and twist thy mouth with thy garters.

I can tell thee, "Master Roland," this favourite hath her privy counsellors, and she not a wit loth to trust 'em. Ah, ah! "honest Roland," perhaps thou didst help her to the terrace key o' yesternight; and it was "kind Roland, fetch me"--oh, her pretty spaniel was it, "Master Roland?"

ROLAND.

Nay, thou art in jest. Sawest thou the Lady Hermione with the key last night?

STEPHANO.

I heard a noise in the gallery, and I jumped hastily from my mattress, and who should I see but Hermione, with her chamber-lamp, opening the door which leads to the garden terrace. What sayest thou, Roland?

ROLAND.

The key I fetched not.

STEPHANO.

Then, it seems, she lacks not other "honest" friends for matters of more need, and they in nothing loth to serve her.

ROLAND.

Didst thou watch her further?

STEPHANO.

Ay, good Roland, or I do not deserve to know the worth of a pretty secret.

ROLAND.

Well?--

STEPHANO.

Thou art curious, i' faith. What makes thee look so wistful?

ROLAND.

Come, thou lucky knave, I want the burden of thy song. How sped she?

STEPHANO.

I hied me to the topmost lattice, overlooking--

ROLAND.

Who was the gallant?

STEPHANO.

Why truly he had a brighter face than thine own, but shorn off somewhat from the left cheek.