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Thou It rot most cool and quiet in my garden; Your gay and gilded vault would be too costly. [Exit with the body of Bartolo.

And socketless pale eyes look glaring on me.
But I have past them: and methinks this weight
Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own.
Howbeit, thank God, 't is safe! Thank God!- fa
what?

That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain.

SCENE II.

A Street.

Enter FAZIO, with a dark Lantern.

I, wont to rove like a tame household dog,
Caress'd by every hand, and fearing none,
Now prowl e'en like a grey and treasonous wolf.
'Tis a bad deed to rob, and I'll have none on 't:
'Tis a bad deed to rob- and whom? the dead!
Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails.
"T is but a quit-rent for the land I sold him,
Almost two yards to house him and his worms:
Somewhat usurious in the main, but that
Is honest thrift to your keen usurer.

Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 't were devilish.
But now whom rob I? why the state-In sooth
Marvellous little owe I this same state,
That I should be so dainty of its welfare.
Methinks our Duke hath pomp enough, our Senate
Sit in their scarlet robes and ermine tippets,
And live in proud and pillar'd palaces,
Where their Greek wines flow plentiful- Besides,
To scatter it abroad amid so many,
It were to cut the sun out into spangles,
And mar its brilliance by dispersing it.
Away! away! his burying is my Rubicon!
Cæsar or nothing! Now, ye close-lock'd treasures,
Put on your gaudiest hues, outshine yourselves!
With a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand
Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers
And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not
Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness,
But front the sun with light bright as his own.

SCENE III.

The Street near Fazio's Door. Re-enter FAZIO with a sack: he rests it. My steps were ever to this door, as though They trod on beds of perfume and of down. The winged birds were not by half so light, When through the lazy twilight air they wheel Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. I move as every separate limb were gyved With its particular weight of manacle. The moonlight that was wont to seem so soft, So balmy to the slow respired breath, Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. The marble pillars, that soared stately up, As though to prop the azure vault of heaven, Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak, Forbidding echoes, ay with human voices. Unbodied arms pluck at me as 1 pass,

SCENE IV.

Fazio's House.

Enter FAZIO with his sack, which he opens and surveys

I thank ye, bounteous thieves! most liberal thieves!
Your daggers are my worship. Have ye leap'd
The broad and sharp-staked trenches of the law,
Mock'd at the deep damnation that attaints
The souls of murderers, for my hands unbloodied,
As delicately, purely white as ever,

To pluck the golden fruitage? Oh, I thank ye,
Will chronicle ye, my good friends and true.

Enter BIANCA. (FAZIO conceals the treasure.)

BIANCA.

Nay, Fazio, nay: this is too much: nay, Fazio, I'll not be humoured like a froward child, Trick'd into sleep with pretty tuneful tales.

FAZIO.

We feast the Duke to-morrow; shall it be
In the Adorni or Vitelli palace?

They're both on sale, and each is fair and lofty.

BIANCA.

Why, Fazio, art thou frantic? Nay, look not
So strangely, so unmeaningly. I had rather
That thou wouldst weep, than look so haggard joyful.

FAZIO.

Ay, and a glorious banquet it shall be:
Gay servants in as proud caparisons,
As though they served immortal gods with nectar.
Ay, ay, Bianca! there shall be a princess;
She shall be lady of the feast. Let's see
Your gold and crimson for your fair-hair'd beauties:-
It shall be gold and crimson. Dost thou know
The princess that I mean? Dost thou, Bianca!

BIANCA.

Nay, if thou still wilt flout me, I'll not weep:
Thou shalt not have the pitiful bad pleasure
Of wringing me to misery. I'll be cold
And patient as a statue of my wrongs.

FAZIO.

I have just thought, Bianca, these black stills
An ugly and ill-fitting furniture:

We'll try an they are brittle. (Dashes them in pieces

I'll have gilding,

Nothing but gilding, nothing but what looks glittering. I'm sick of black and dingy darkness. Here (U covering the sack.)

Look here, Bianca, here's a light! Take care.
Thine eyesight is too weak for such a blaze.

It is not daylight; nay, it is not morn—
And every one is worth a thousand florins.
Who shall be princess of the feast to-morrow?
[She bursts into tears.
Within, within, I'll tell thee all within. [Exeunt

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Flatterer! Nay, the word's grown gross.
An apt discourser upon things of honour,
Professor of art Panegyrical.

T were ill were I a hawk to see such bravery,
And not a thrush to sing of it. Wealth, sir,
Wealth is the robe and outward garb of man;
The setting to the rarer jewelry,

The soul's unseen and inner qualities.
And then, my lord, philosophy! 't is that,
The stamp and impress of our divine nature,

By which we know that we are Gods, and are so.
But wealth and wisdom in one spacious breast!

Who would not hymn so rare and rich a wedding? Who would not serve within the gorgeous palace, Glorified by such strange and admired inmates? FAZIO (aside.)

Now the poor honest Fazio had disdain'd

Such scurvy fellowship; howbeit, Lord Fazio Must lacquey his new state with these base jackals. (To him.)

Fair sir, you'll honour me with your company. (To Dandolo.)

May I make bold, sir, with your state and title?

DANDOLO.

Oh, my lord, by the falling of your robe,

Your cloth of gold one whole hair's-breadth too low, "Tis manifest you know not Signior Dandolo.

FAZIO.

A pitiable lack of knowledge, sir!

DANDOLO.

My lord, thou hast before thee in thy presence
The mirror of the court, the very calendar
That rules the swift revolving round of fashion;
Doth tell what hues do suit what height o' the sun;
When your spring pinks should banish from the court
Your sober winter browns; when July heat
Doth authorize the gay and flaunting yellows; -
The court thermometer, that doth command
Your three-piled velvet abdicate its state

For the airy satins. Oh, my lord, you are too late,
At least three days, with your Venetian tissue.

FAZIO.

I sorrow, sir, to merit your rebuke On point so weighty.

DANDOLO.

Ay, signior, I'm paramount In all affairs of boot, and spur, and hose; In matters of the robe and cap supreme; In ruff disputes, my lord, there's no appeal From my irrefragibility.

FAZIO.

Sweet sir,

I fear me, such despotic rule and sway
Over the persons of our citizens
Must be of danger to our state of Florence.

DANDOLO.

Good sooth, my lord, I am a very tyrant.
Why, if a senator should presume to wear
A cloak of fur in June, I should indict him
Guilty of leze-majesté against my kingship:
They call me Dandolo, the King of Fashions-
The whole empire of dress is my dominion.
Why, if our Duke should wear an ill-grain'd colour
Against my positive enactment, though
His state might shield him from the palpable shame
Of a rebuke, yet, my good lord, opinion,
Public opinion, would hold Signior Dandolo
Merciful in his silence.

FAZIO.

A Lycurgus!

DANDOLO.

Good, my lord! dignity must be upheld

On the strong pillars of severity.

Your cap, my lord, a little to the north-east,

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No, signior, no; I'm not one of the gallants
That pine for a fair lip, or eye, or cheek,
Or that poetical treasure, a true heart.

But, my lord, a fair-order'd head-dress makes me
As love-sick as a dove at mating-time:

A tasteful slipper is my soul's delight.
Oh, I adore a robe that drops and floats
As it were lighter than the air around it;
I dote upon a stomacher to distraction,
When the gay jewels, gracefully disposed,
Make it a zone of stars: and then a fan,
The elegant motion of a fan, is murder,
Positive murder to my poor weak senses.
FAZIO (turning to PHILARIO.)

But here's a third: the Improvisatore,
Gentle Philario, lurks, methinks, behind.

PHILARIO.

Most noble lord! it were his loftiest boast
To wed your honours to his harp. To hymn
The finder of the philosophic stone,

The sovereign prince of alchymists; 't would make
The cold verse-mechanist, the nice balancer
Of curious words and fair compacted phrases,
Burst to a liquid and melodious flow,
Rapturous and ravishing but in praise of thee!
But I, my lord, that have the fluent vein,
The rapid rush

FAZIO.

Fie, sir! O fie! 't is fulsome. Sir, there's a soil fit for that rank weed flattery To trail its poisonous and obscure clusters: A poet's soul should bear a richer fruitageThe aconite grew not in Eden. Thou, That thou, with lips tipt with the fire of heaven, Th' excursive eye, that in its earth-wide range Drinks in the grandeur and the loveliness That breathes along this high-wrought world of man; Thou hast within thee apprehensions strong Of all that's pure and passionless and heavenlyThat thou, a vapid and a mawkish parasite, Shouldst pipe to that witch Fortune's favourites! "Tis coarse-'t is sickly-'t is as though the eagle Should spread his sail-broad wings to flap a dunghill; As though a pale and withering pestilence Should ride the golden chariot of the sun; As one should use the language of the gods To chatter loose and ribald brothelry.

PHILARIO.

My lord, I thank thee for that noble chiding

Oh, my lord, 't is the curse and brand of poesy,
That it must trim its fetterless free plumes
To the gross fancies of the humoursome age;
That it must stoop from its bold heights to court
Liquorish opinion, whose aye-wavering breath
Is to it as the precious air of life.

Oh, in a capering, chambering, wanton land,
The lozel's song alone gains audience,
Fine loving ditties, sweet to sickliness;
The languishing and luscious touch alone,
Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain
The pall'd and pamper'd ear of Italy.
But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries
For the initiate Hark!-it bursts! - it flows.

Song by PHILARIO.

Rich and royal Italy!
Dominion's lofty bride!

Earth deem'd no loss of pride

To be enslaved by thee.

From broad Euphrates' bank,

When the sun look'd through the gloom
Thy eagle's golden plume

His orient splendour drank;
And when at eve he set

Far in the chamber'd west,
That bird of brilliance yet
Bathed in his gorgeous rest.
Sad and sunken Italy!
The plunderer's common prey!
When saw the eye of day
So very a slave as thee?
Long, long a bloody stage
For petty kinglings tame,
Their miserable game
Of puny war to wage.
Or from the northern star
Come haughty despots down,
With iron hand to share

Thy bruised and broken crown.

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There, my lord, there is a fair drooping robe-
Would that I were a breath of wind to float it!

FAZIO.

Gentlemen, by your leave I would salute her:
You'll meet me anon in the Piazza.

FAZIO.

And why not, lady? She is exquisite,
Bashfully, humbly exquisite; yet Florence
May be as proud of her, as of the richest,
That fire her with the lustre of their state.
And why not, lady?

ALDABELLA.

Why! I know not why —
Oh your philosophy, 't is ever curious;
Poor lady Nature must tell all, and clearly,
To its inquisitorship. We 'll not think on 't:
It fell from me un'wares; words will start forth,
When the mind wanders. - Oh no, not because
She's merely lovely:- but we'll think no more

on't.

Didst hear the act?

FAZIO.

Lady, what act?

ALDABELLA.

The act

Of the great Duke of Florence and his Senate,
Entitled against turtle doves in poesy.
Henceforth that useful bird is interdict,
As the mild emblem of true constancy.

[Exeunt all but Fazio. There's a new word found; 't is pure Tuscan too;
Fazio's to fill the blank up, if it chime;
If not, Heaven help the rhymester.

Now, lofty woman, we are equal now,
And I will front thee in thy pitch of pride.

FAZIO (apart.)

Enter ALDABELLA. She speaks, after a salutation on With what an airy and a sparkling grace

each side.

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Oh nought-mere sound-mere air-Thou'rt married, Of playing the miser to another treasure,

Fazio :

And is thy bride a jewel of the first water?

I know thou wilt say, ay; 't is an old tale,
Thy fond lip-revel on a lady's beauties:

Methinks I've heard thee descant upon loveliness,
Till the full ears were drunken with sweet sounds.
But never let me see her, Fazio; never.

One not less precious than thy stately self.

ALDABELLA.

Oh yes, my lord, oh yes; the tale did run
That thou and I did love: so ran the tale.
That thou and I should have been wed-the tale
Ran so, my lord. - Oh memory, memory, memory!
It is a bitter pleasure, but 't is pleasure.

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Oh yes, my lord, he was a noble gentleman;
Thou know'st him by his title, Condé d'Orsoa;
My nearest kinsman, my good uncle:- I,
Knowing our passionate and fanciful nature,
To his sage counsels fetter'd my wild will.
Proud was he of me, deem'd me a fit mate
For highest princes; and his honest flatteries
So pamper'd me, the fatal duteousness
So grew upon me - Fazio, dost thou think
My colour wither'd since we parted? Gleam
Mine eyes as they were wont?-Or doth the outside
Still wear a lying smooth indifference,
While the unseen heart is haggard wan with woe?

FAZIO.

Is 't possible? And didst thou love me, lady?
Though it be joy vain and unprofitable
As is the sunshine to a dead man's eyes,
Pleasureless from his impotence of pleasure;
Tell me and truly -

ALDABELLA.

My grave sir confessor,

On with thy hood and cowl.-So thou wouldst hear
Of pining days and discontented nights;
Ah me's and doleful airs to my sad lute.
Fazio, they suffer most who utter least. —
Heaven, what a babbling traitor is the tongue!
Would not the air freeze up such sinful sound?-
Oh no, thou heard'st it not. Ah me! and thou,
I know, wilt surfeit the coarse common ear
With the proud Aldabella's fall. Betray me not;
Be charier of her shame than Aldabella.

And thou, thou snowy and unsociable virtue,
May'st lose no less a votaress from thy nunnery
Than the most beautiful proud Aldabella.
Had I been honest, 't were indeed to fall;
But now 't is but a step down the declivity.
Bianca! but Bianca! - bear me up,

Bear me up, in the trammels of thy fondness
Bind thou my slippery soul. Wrong thee, Bianca ?
Nay, nay, that's deep indeed; fathomless deep
In the black pit of infamy and sin:
kam not so weary yet of the upper air.
Wrong thee, Bianca? No, not for the earth;
Not for earth's brightest, not for Aldabella.

SCENE III.

Palace of Fazio.

FAZIO and BIANCA.

FAZIO.

Dost thou love me, Bianca?

BIANCA.

There's a question For a philosopher! - Why, I've answer'd it For two long years; and, oh, for many more, It will not stick upon my lips to answer thee.

FAZIO.

Thou 'rt in the fashion, then. The court, Bianca,
The ladies of the court, find me a fair gentleman;
Ay, and a dangerous wit too, that smites smartly.

BIANCA.

And thou believest it all!

FAZIO.

Why, if the gallants,
The lordly and frank spirits of the time,
Troop around thee with gay rhymes on thy beauties,
Tinkling their smooth and amorous flatteries,
Shalt thou be then a solemn infidel?

BIANCA.

I shall not heed them; my poor beauty needs
Only one flatterer.

FAZIO.

Ay, but they'll press on thee,
And force their music into thy deaf ears.
Think ye, ye should be coy, and calm, and cold?

BIANCA.

Oh, no!-I fear me a discourteous laugh
[Fazio falls on his knees to her. Might be their guerdon for their lavish lying.

My lord! my lord! 'tis public here - -no more-
I'm staid for at my palace by the Arno.
Farewell, my lord, farewell!- Betray me not:-
But never let me see her, Fazio, never.
FAZIO (solus.)

Love me! to suffering love me! - why her love
Might draw a brazen statue from its pedestal,
And make its yellow veins leap up with life.
Fair Chastity, thou hast two juggling fiends
Caballing for thy jewel: one within,

And that's a mild and melting devil, Love;
Th' other without, and that's a fair rich gentleman,
Giraldi Fazio: they 're knit in a league.

FAZIO.

But if one trip upon your lip, or wind
Your fingers in his sportive hand, think ye
Ye could endure it?

BIANCA.

Fazio, thou wrong'st me
With such dishonest questionings. My lord,
There's such an awe in virtue, it can make
The anger of a sleek smooth brow like mine
Strike the hot libertine to dust before me
He'd dare to dally with a fire in his hand,
Kiss ragged briars with his unholy lips,
Ere with his rash assault attaint my honour.

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