Chapter VII: 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 hoary 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 pass'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 space 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 titled 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 circumstance and form,-- Fashion'd realities by truth impress'd Upon the craving eye-balls,--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.

ROLAND. Thou speakest parables, Stephano. Out with it, friend: a secret cometh to no good if kept in thy stomach.

STEPHANO. A fair face; eyes, mouth, and nose, though none of the best;--I think not half so well made as mine own.

ROLAND.
In troth, a dainty lover. What more?

STEPHANO. But then she gave him such a look of devotion, it would have done thine heart good to have watched the turn of her face, and to have looked at the glistening of her eye,--and yet this platter-faced gallant seemed all unmoved.

ROLAND.
His name knowest thou?

STEPHANO. Verily, he hath many titles, and I should be puzzled to suit my respect with his proper quality, should we meet.

ROLAND. I'll watch to-night;--but pr'ythee whisper me his name gently; I am not quick at solving a riddle.

STEPHANO. Nay, nay; watch and satisfy thine own prying fancy, as I have mine. If she walks to-night I'll call thee. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Chamber in Ridolfi's House._

_HERMIONE, sitting at a Table._

HERMIONE. Two years agone--this self-same chamber-- Just as 'twas wont;--that ebony casket--still Yon little crucifix hung o'er the mirror,-- That plaited riband, on its flower-carved pillars, I wore in sport for love's fair guerdon; Its chequer'd noose I vow'd to cast on him Who caught me first in some wild reckless game Of wanton mirth; but none, as I remember, The adventure gain'd,--it hangs unclaimed still. But why this heaviness?--as if some secret, Some long-forgotten grief, waked from its slumber, Roused at the voice of these loud recollections. Ah! dread dissembler! once I thought thee dead, And thou but slept! Away! haunt not my spirit! Is it thy form, fell demon? Hence!--thy strength Is nurtured but with present loneliness, And on the wings of some reviving thought Admittance hast thou gain'd to mock me. [_Knocking without._ Who knocks?--

BLANCH. 'Tis time, lady, you adorn for the guests. The Duke sends word he will attend, and with it his gracious love to Hermione. This billet greets you with his welcome.

HERMIONE. A billet!--Welcome!--Stay. Thou shalt attire me in some simple garb, Some unassuming robe; its modest hue Unnoticed, I can there observe The humours of this feast.

BLANCH. Your crimson bodice, lady, becomes you best, and your lilac kerchief with the blue purfle----or do you choose your orange tiffany dress, and your coif and farthingale?

HERMIONE. Neither, good Blanch. Where is mine old spotted robe, with the silk sleeves and violet-flowered stomacher?

BLANCH. Lady, what unlucky accident should bethink you of the garment? I fear your memory is but indifferently served. Once, my kind mistress, you gave it to me: and I remember well I said the dress was too gay, when straight you replied, with a sigh (and I do always grieve to hear you sigh, lady), "Take it, good Blanch; I wear it not again:" which I the more marvelled at, being, as you remember, made up for your last visit to Mantua, nor did you inquire for it, after you left this gay city; but methinks none other serves you so well for this same soft-air'd clime. I will away for it speedily, right glad, I trow, the roguish pedler hath not fetched it, who gathers the cast-off dresses from your house. I have not worn the apparel, lady.

HERMIONE. Thou art a kind-hearted gossip. Choose thee the best suit from my clothes-press, and take it for the exchange.--Nay, good Blanch, I allow not thy gainsay:--it will, peradventure, help thee to a husband.

BLANCH. I will but keep it then, my sweet mistress, to answer at your bidding; mayhap, you will fancy it on your wedding-day.

HERMIONE. I shall need no garment then, but the one thy grandmother wore when she scared thy father in the forest.

BLANCH.
Save you, my lady! mean you her winding-sheet?

HERMIONE. I mean mine own, Blanch; hers being worn out, belike, ere now, with much travel.

BLANCH.
Oh, mercy!--but you are ever at a jest.

HERMIONE.
Nay, girl, my spirits are too heavy.

BLANCH. What mean you, fair mistress? I do fear me a few hours of this Mantuan air have wrought untowardly with you. Are you ill, lady?

HERMIONE.
No, girl.

BLANCH.
It is a secret that disturbs you?

HERMIONE.
Thou canst sing, Blanch?--

BLANCH.
Ay, sweet lady, that can I,--and your favourite carol too. List.
[_Sings._
"The miller was blithe in the red, red morn.
And he sung ere the lark left her nest;
His heart was bright as the gold, gold light
That comes o'er the dappled east."

HERMIONE.
Nay, that sorts not with my humour, Blanch.

BLANCH. Shall I try the merry troll you were always right glad to hear, which the old steward taught us?

"Roundabout, roundabout, laugh and glee
So merry, so merry--"

HERMIONE. Stay:--not now:--some other song, and we'll in to the toilet: let it be brief--I know not why,--save that I think thy singing hath not now such a jocund and mirthful spirit in it.

BLANCH. Ah, lady!--but strange purposes are i' the wind when the mirth-giving Hermione becometh a lover of lamentable ditties!--Stay, shall it be of love?--a sleepy tale of love, as you were wont to call it?--I know a ballad of this hue.

HERMIONE. I care not: another, it may be, would have chimed better. Yet, I'll hear thee as a babbler of strange stories.

BLANCH (_sings_).
"Up with the light,
My maiden bright,
The thrush twitters on the tree;
Each merry, merry bird to his mate doth call,
And the bridal waits for thee!

"The sunbeams pass On the dew-spread grass, And gold gleams are in the sky; The morn's balmy breeze to thy casement hies, And thy bridegoom is waiting for thee."

The lover spake, "Fair maid, awake," Yet the maiden still she slept! "Why tarries she from me?--thy bonny face I'll see," And lightly to her window he leapt.

One cry he gave, Then still as the grave In dim horror he fix'd his dark eye; For there his lady bright slept her long, long changeless night, And a blood-sprinkled corpse welter'd nigh!

BLANCH.
How like you the song?

HERMIONE. Indifferent well;--methinks it were too sad. But sadness and I must have closer fellowship ere long, or I mistake the note of her approach. Away, Blanch; we must not delay the honours of the feast. [_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_An Inn at Mantua._

_Enter BERTRAND and CARLOS, fatigued with travel._

BERTRAND. 'Tis well, good Carlos, in this noble city, Thanks to all proper instruments, we now Enter safe housed. Nay, nay, dole-stricken friend, Put off these looks, drench'd still in woe. Why, man, Love ne'er was waked with weeping; woman's eye E'er kept her heart, and thou must henceforth bribe With gayer looks that restless twinkling organ, Ere thou may'st gain admittance to her breast. Rouse thee!--Accost her thus, with careless look And laughing eye;--bid her "good day;"-- Wring her fair hand; and if withdrawn, Why seize her by the waist: her sullen looks Heed not; an' if she chide, toss back her words;-- Let her not learn from thy woe-tinctured face, Ere yet the tremulous voice its utterance shape, Thou pinest a love-sick fool!--

CARLOS. Bertrand, forbear. Thou speakest like to one whose lofty spirit Love hath not quell'd. I cannot now th' oppressor Lift from my soul; I am bow'd down,--subdued,-- Crush'd even to earth,--yet crawling heavily, A cumbrous burden, wearied, useless here, And without purport to my fellow-men!-- I seem aloof from all connexion, tie, Or kindred with mankind. The very earth, My parent dust, claims not its fellowship With mine! Would that yon chill and rayless dwelling Had shut me out, and all mine hated sorrow, Far from the gaze, the cold, unpitying gaze, Alike of stranger and of friend! Soon shall the darkness cover me,--the tomb Close mine account for ever. Then shall I rest;-- No glance of cool-eyed scorn shall meet me there, Nor woman's charm'd and traitorous tongue shall mock me. They seek not victims i' the grave!--My grief Shall there be spent; the heart's last ebbing throe To earth in quiet nothingness shall leave me, Loosed from my dungeon and my chain!--

BERTRAND. Carlos, Thy troubled spirit hath no appetite For aught but evil. Fancy, diseased, Shapeth its wrongs from what itself doth breed,-- E'en as the timid and belated hind From out his spectre-haunted brain brings forth The shadow most he fears.--I do not mock thee; Cold scorn lurks not i' the same laughing orbit Of an unfraudulent eye. Thou know'st it well, Thy peace alone I've sought; and this coy dame, Woo'd as mine hopes commend, would free my bosom From half its load. For these remediless griefs With equal weight oppress mine anguish'd spirit, As the united woe this breast e'er smote, The sum untold of this world's misery.

CARLOS. Forgive a wayward tongue, fretful--unkind: My breaking heart still holds thee dear.

BERTRAND. Forgive!-- Nay, ask not this;--man asks but favours. What waits our bolder claim we crave not. Hold!-- 'Tis needful we devise, touching our errand, Some scheme for its adventure. Shrewd my guess, Thou would'st e'en now return, unwoo'd, unsought This dainty maiden, and to others leave The fond pursuit, then lay thee down and weep! I've led thee hither, Carlos;--here I vow, Ere this same gallant city hath disgorged Such useless habitants, to her dull ear Thou shalt commend thy love.

CARLOS.
I've penn'd a fragrant billet----

BERTRAND. Or a sonnet, Mayhap, unto her eyne. Nay, 'tis not thus Her fickle love is caught:--canst find no speech? 'Tis said love's eloquent, and pleadeth nobly, Using such vehement passion as doth rouse The listening heart. Pour thy whole soul to hers: Give her no space for thought--'twill bring resistance. Reflection's chill and polish'd surface soon Would glance off thine artillery, rolling back The warm flood to thine heart. But I forbear:-- My wish is ever foremost on my tongue, And still outstrips thy power! Well, thou canst sing, Play on the cittern, trill the soft-voiced lute Beneath a lady's chamber; thou canst fill A delicate ear with ditties framed so deftly, And with such wondrous skill, another's woe Shall seem thine own, 'Tis said, in that soft hour The maiden's heart is tender, and well nurtured To cherish love's impressions. Then, I tell thee, Unask'd attend, and with some vagrant band Of hired melodists, at once discourse, To thine heart's easing, of pale woe, sighs, groans, And love forsaken. Thus prepared, her thought Will wondering turn to her moon-driven warbler. Thou knowest well in woman's restless soul A lurking fondness lies for mystery. If thou but win her thought to some connexion, Some yet scarce-felt recurrence with thine own, And pleasure once associate with the thought-- These outworks gain'd, cheer thee, thou gloomy knight; The lady shall be won. [_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

_The Terrace. Moonlight._

_Enter HERMIONE._

HERMIONE. Calm orb, how tranquil is thy path!-- Amid the stars thou walkest, clad in light As with a garment. Still thy borrow'd robe The darkness compasseth, and sullen night His cloud-spread visage cleareth at thy beam.-- How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps! Fair image, woman, of thy maiden breast, Unmoved by love. Anon, some vagrant breath Ruffles its surface, and its pure still light In tremulous pulses heaves:--brighter, perchance, That feverish glitter, but its rest is o'er!-- How fresh the dewy air falls on my cheek, As if some spirit, clothed in its influence, came Upon my soul, with one heaven-given drop, To cool its torment! Would that I could bind Thine incorporeal essence! I would chain thee Here!--on my heart! Benevolent visitor, Whether from yon bright sphere to mortals sent, On moonbeams gliding,--fairy gnome or sylph, Whate'er thy name;--or from earth's glistening caves, Or from the forest-corall'd deep thou comest, In these chill drops that stud my dew-deck'd hair, Its every braid impearling:--fly me not, I charge thee, gentle spirit!--Hark! he comes! [_Music at a distance._ I thank thee---- [_The sound gradually approaches, until heard apparently from beneath the Terrace._ A voice!--I'll hear thy words. Breathe not too loud, Ye winds.--

SONG.
Lady, list to me!
Thy gentle spirit I'll be;
The fire is my garment, the flood is my bed,
And I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red
That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.

Lady, list to me! To the mountain-top I flee: There I watch the first wave that comes laden with light, And its soft hue I spread o'er each billow so bright, With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height, And the morn's radiant canopy.-- [_The voice ceases, and the music slowly retires._

HERMIONE. Oh fly not!--bear me on thy wing!--from earth-- From----Why this shudder?--Save me, spirit of air, Or earth, or sea! Tear me but hence; and yet I cannot part. Oh! why in mercy once Was I conceived, and not to nothing crush'd Ere the first feeble pulse, unconscious life, Crept through this viewless form?--Why was I kept Unharm'd through infinite perils?--spared, yet doom'd To writhe unpitied--succourless--alone, Beneath one cruel, one remorseless woe,-- From hope shut out--from common sympathy, And all communion of sorrow,--e'en To the veriest wretch upon thy bosom earth Ne'er yet denied?--This boon I dare not ask: Wither'd, consumed, companionless, unwept, I meet mine hastening doom. Yet, clad in smiles, A flower-wreathed sacrifice, I gaily bound, With gambols playful as the innocent lamb, To the devouring altar. The knife is bared!-- Uplifted,--glittering! Yet I woo thee, tyrant, And madly kiss my chain. This night the feast I left;--arm'd, I had proudly thought--vain hope! With such resolve as, on this moonlit terrace, Where, freed awhile from earth's disquietude, My thralled heart might here unchain for ever!-- [_Takes a billet from her bosom._ I vow'd to snatch thee from my breast! To tear thee hence! and to the winds, unseen, Commit thy perishing fragments, e'en as now This unoffending page I rend, far scattering Its frail memorial to the air.-- [_Makes an effort to tear the paper._ Some power withholds me. What! for this thou yearnest? Weak, foolish heart, some other hour, thou say'st, Better thou canst resign this fluttering relic Of thy----hope, whisperest thou? Nay, folly--madness,--call it but aright, Thou throbbing fool, and I will give thee back Thy doted bauble. [_Returns it into her bosom._ There--there!--watch over it! Brood on thy minion!--cherish and pamper it Until it mock thee!--prey on thy young blood,-- Poison each spring of natural affection, And all the sympathies that flesh inherits,-- Then wilt thou curse thine idol!--Impotent rage,-- It will deride thee, and will fiercely cling To thine undoing for ever. Fare thee well, Thou star-hung canopy!--far-smiling orb. Farewell! No more sweet influences ye fling, As ye were wont, around my desolate heart; I cannot bear your stillness:--Earthquake--storm-- The mighty war of the vex'd elements, Would best comport with my disquiet:--now, On thy calm face I dare not look again! [_Exit._

_Enter ROLAND and STEPHANO._

STEPHANO. So, so, my moon-eyed maiden. Ah, "Good Roland," gallants breed not i' the sun; they thrive best belike i' the moonbeams.

ROLAND.
I saw no gallant.

STEPHANO. Why, poor wretch, I pity thee. Perhaps she hath fallen sick for the moon; thou seest his cheek is somewhat shorn off, and I verily think he favours the lover that I told thee of.

ROLAND. Thou art an old and a wicked rogue. But what waked such pleasant music? Came that from the moon too?

STEPHANO. Ah, ah, honest friend, dost thou breed suspicions?--Ask the gardener who brought the music-men so late under the garden terrace.

_Enter LAURA cautiously, carrying a light._

LAURA. How now, masters, wot ye,--a pretty time o' night for secret whisperings! What brings you to the terrace, worthy sirs, so nigh upon midnight? Pleasant discourse truly, you unseasonable villains! Can't you stay a-bed?

ROLAND.
Sweet mistress, we came to hear the music.

LAURA. And what should lug your dainty ears to the serenade?--I' faith, 'tis high time for your betters to stop their ears, when asses jog to the pipe. So, you guessed the music came to benefit your private discourse. An excellent jest this!--a serenade to a couple of owls.--Get in, you lazy dolts, and thank your stars, and not your ears, that you have 'scaped a beating.----[_Exeunt ROLAND and STEPHANO._]----I wonder these idiots guessed not who drew the serenade to this long-deserted house. True it may be some dozen years or more since this same salute awoke me; nevertheless, I was not past hope of its return. That gallant stranger whom I saw at vespers yesterday eyed me not, nor did he watch the corner of the street, for nought.--Well, it is a noble-looking cavalier, and a steady, well-ordered person, I warrant, from his noticing me so properly, and not that giddy coz of mine, the love-unheeding Hermione.--I hope he will return. Virgin decorum permitteth not my regard to his first appearance.--Hark!----[_Music._]----Oh! how my heart flutters! Sweet harbinger of love! I must show myself, or he will die of despair, or, perchance, he will not come again, which will suit me still worse. Though, certes, it would be mightily amusing to feel oneself the cause of a gay cavalier hanging himself in his garters! What a precious revenge for the many slights we maidens are subject to! And then, to have it said, "there goes the signora for whom signor so and so hanged himself." Oh, how charming is this moonlight! Really, I am younger to-night than when I was but one year past thirty. Hush!--ay, I warrant thou art in love;--I can tell by the turn of thy voice. Senor Antonio quavered just as thou dost;--but--he was fickle, and quavered so far he could not get back again. I never saw him again after his second sky alto!--Hark!

SONG.
Fair as the moonbeam,
Bright as the running stream,
Sparkling, yet cold.
In Love's tiny fingers
A shaft yet there lingers,
And he creeps near thy bosom and smiles, lady.
Soon his soft wings will cherish
A flame round thine heart,
And, ere it may perish,
Thy peace shall depart.
O listen, listen, lady gay,
Love doth not always sue;
The brightest flame will oft decay,
The fondest lover rue, lady!

LAURA.
I cannot resist.
[_She waves her hand over the Terrace. A letter is
thrown--she takes it to the lamp, and reads--_

"Say, fairest, canst thou love? or doth cold scorn compose the sum of thy affections? Can thine eyes enkindle so suddenly another's heart, and yet shed no warmth on thine own? Give me but one smile, and thou shalt frown upon me for ever: so shall that cheering beam outlive a thousand dark winters. I am grown bold, for I have but a simple tale, and if thou wilt lend an ear to my suit, on the Terrace, to-morrow night at this hour, my presence will not offend thee again unless thou judgest in my favour. "CARLOS."

So, so,--rather a bold gallant I trow, seeing it is the first he hath asked of my company; but I guess it is the fashion of these perilous days. Peradventure, if I had not been beforetime so careful of my favours, I had been woo'd and wedded with the best of 'em. After all, I see no great harm in the company of a handsome young spark, save that the uncourted dames are envious withal! but verily they would change their minds mayhap as I do, though every one doth not judge so charitably as the person who hath chanced to ride on the other side of his opinion. I scolded the maids though but yesterday for a night frolic with their sweethearts, and bravely will Hermione laugh at my sermon, with the practice thereto appended. Well, I care not--"let those laugh that get the magpie's nest."--When I am married, grin who dare;--Carlos, I meet thee! [_Exit._