}H'l!H;i;liiO!^^'^'''i':'-:'inU'i UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES J MIRANDOLA 9 S 3S 13 MIRANDOLA A TRAGEDY > . > ' « BY BARRY CORNWALL, SECOND EDITIOX. LONDO^f J.OHN WARREN, OLD BOND STREET. MDCCCXXI. LONDON : BHACKKLL AND ARR0W8MITH, JOHNSON'S-COUR T, FLEET-STREET. ^ ADVERTISEMENT. J J;;; Thb fact of a father liaving married the lady betrothed >■ to his son, occurred in the case of Phihp the 2nd of Spain, fiQ andof D'Este, one of the Dukes of Ferrara. This fact I have borrowed, as well as the circumstance of the father condemning his son to death. In other respects, the o5 Tragedy is, as far as I know, original. The character of the sensitive Mirandola, more particularly, is unbor- rD rowed. •< That the Tragedy has succeeded so well must be ascribed, no dovibt in a material degree, to the great exertion of the performers ; and the pleasant task remains Q to me of saying how much I am sensible of the really t» ■■ ^ masterly delineation which Mr. Macready gave of the 301247' VI ADVERTISEMENT. varying and difficult character of Mirandola, and of the higli and perfectly admirable portrait which Mr. C. Kem- ble embodied of the son. Indeed I owe my best thanks to ALL concerned in the representation of the Tragedy, to Mrs. Faucit, Miss Foote (the beautiful representative of Isidora) I\Ir. Abbott, Mr. Egerton, and Mr. Con- nor ; for all were most zealous, and exerted their talents with the greatest possible effect. I must not let this opportunity pass of saying that I owe much to Mr. Macready, whose kind and valuable suggestions induced me to concentrate the incidents in the latter part of the play more than I had origi- nally intended to do. He will, I hope, be content with this sincere but very inadequate acknowledgement of the friendly interest which he has evinced throughout all the progress of the play. B. C. PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. CHAPMAN. (written by a friend.) Though, for two hundred years, the stage lias been A varying story, shifting scene by scene From wit to ribaldry, as veered tlie age, 'Till both were lost in one wide sea of rage ; Yet, for a time, a crowd of mighty men Flourished in Britain, their sole arms — the pen, The Poet's pencil, dipp'd in living light, That flowed from beaming day or starry night ; Their music such as sprang from winds or floods. Their colours those which hung the waving woods, The rocks, the vallies, and the circling sky; Their spirit the same which has thro* years gone by Lived — oh ! and still, as fair as in its youth, Survives, — immutable, immortal Truth ; Their words — (no heavy coinage of the brain, Wrought with dull toil and uninspired pain,) Came from the gently-stricken heart's rebound, Like natural echoes from some pleasant sound. Of late some Poets of true mind have writ Lines that have relished of the ancient wit : To-night, another, not unknown — yet one Who feels that much is to be lost — and won, Comes with a few plain words, honestly told. Like those his mightier masters spoke of old. And anxious that his story may by you Be foimd to every answering feeling true.— On no huge sounding words he rests his fame ; No mighty sentences his pride proclaim : To woo you — win you, — as they did of yore, In bettci times, he asks — and asks no more. DRAMATIS PEUSOxV.E. John, Duke of Mirandola GuiDo, his Son Hypolito, Son of Isabella Casti, Julio, Gheraldi, a Monk Curio . Marco, an Innkeeper ?Fri lends of Guido Mr. Macready. Mr. C. Kemble. Miss BODEN. Mr. Abbot. ^Mr. Connor. Mr. Egerton. Mr. Comer. Mr. Atkins. s Pesaro, Andrea, Piero, Nobles, Servants, &c. IsiDORA, Duchess of Mirandola . Miss Foote. Isabella, Sister of the Duke . Mrs. Faucit. Beatrice, Wife of Marco . . Miss Shaw. SCENE — At and near Mirandola, in Italy. MIRANDOLA. ACT I. SCENE I. The Older yard of an inn on the road to Mirandola. Beatrice enters J^t^om the Inn. Bea. I thought I heard the trampHng of horses. Marco ! — There are so few travellers who pass this road, that really we must make the most of all who come. Hark ! that was certainly a horse"'s step. — Marco ! — There, again : somebody is certainly coming. (She lis- tens.) Marco enters. Marco. By Saint Peter, this will be a rare day to go to sleep in. There''ll be nothing awake to-day but the sun, and my wife. Why, Beatrice, what''s the mat- ter ? Are you bent double before your time ? She looks like Fine-ear, in the Fairy tale, who listens to hear the grass grow. Beatrice ! Beatrice. Hark ! don t you hear ^ Marco. Hear ? no : and yet — Ha ! I do hear some- B 2 MIRANDOLA. thincr now. Some travellers, I suppose : yes, they are now almost close to us. They stop. Ah ! there they are at the end of the orchard. — Go in, go in and prepare breakfast for them. There never yet was a traveller who had'nt a good appetite. ('Beatrice goes in.) A good clever girl that, tho' she talks more than she need at times ; but, what ! — there"'s no one perfect. Now if these gallants should be coming to the merry-making at Court, which was held yesterday, in honor of the Duke''s marriage that happened some time ago, why they'll be a day too late, that's all. — So, who is this ^ Andrea enters. Andrea. Are you the landlord of this house ? Marco. I am. Andrea. The Duke's son, Lord Guido, is here on his way home from Naples. Get some refreshment ready, and be quick. Marco. The Duke's son ? Andrea. Yes. — Why what's the matter ? The Duke's son, I said. Marco. What he who died ? Andrea. Died ! — Nonsense ! how could he be here if he died ? he was only wounded. Marco. Not dead ? that's odd. Is he coming to the Court feast ? Andrea. We've heard of no feast. What is it for ? Is any body married, or dead ? Marco. Hush ! your master's here. — Beatrice ! MIRANDOLA. GuiDo, Casti, and Julio enter. Julio. All ! Signior Casti, you were gallant ever, At home and in the field. — Here, fellow ; shew Our servants where the horses may be housed. Beatrice enters. Marco. I will, my lord. Casti. Take care of mine, — a grey. Guido. This is the prettiest girl that I have seen Since I left Naples. Bca. Oh ! my lord. Casti. You have forgot poor Ba3'ard. Guido. No, indeed. Good fellow, Go with this man, and he will show you where A berry-brown horse is panting, wet and white With foam. — Carlo*'s gone onwards ? Serv. Yes, my lord. Guido. That horse — he is a friend of mine, (the best That ever bore a man thro'' blood and death ;) Take excellent care of him as you expect Requital. [Marco and Servant exeunt. Thanks, good Casti, many thanks : Old Bayard too should thank you if he could. Julio. Now, hostess, we are hungry travellers : go And strip your larder of ifs best : we come With desperate thoughts against it. Guido. Pretty hostess ! Are 1/ou the hostess of tliis pleasant place ? B 2 4 MIRANDOLA. Bent. Yes, my lord, yes. CastL You make her blush. Julio. No more.— Good hostess, hie thou in and quickly make The best of preparation : we shall be With thee anon. [Beatrice exit. Guido. We shall come to thee soon. Jidio. Why, my dear lord, this peasant seems to take Your fancy. Guido. Oh ! I like a pretty face At court or in a cottage. Casti. And in camp ? Guide. No ; there one's thoughts are taught to swerve From their more natural bent. — I hate the camp. I hate it's noise and stiff parade,— it's blank And empty forms, and stately courtesy. Where between bows and blows, a smile and a stab, There's scarce a moment. Soldiers always live In idleness or peril : both are bad. Casti. I fear that you are right, indeed. Julio. How ! right ? Guido. I am. — Give me an intellectual nobler life ; Not fighting like the herded elephants, which, Beckon'd by some fierce slave, go forth to war, And trample in the dust their fellow brute. But let me live amongst high thoughts and smiles As beautiful as love ; with gras]iing hands, MIRANDOLA. 5 And a heart that flutters with diviner Ufe "Whene'er my step is lieard. Julio. Why, what is this? Casti. A picture of a happier lot, dear friend, Than you and I have known. Julio. Had I not seen You both fight bravely, — ^better than myself, I should have doubted you. — What ! rail at war — Bright eyed Bellona ? — Oh ! for shame, for shame ! I must forswear your company, my Lord. For me, I hke all folks who follow war, Down to the very suttler : I am even Friend to the commissary. Guido. Ay, when you run In debt. Casti. With empty pockets. Guido. Or— or when He feasts his friends. Casti. Or falls in love, and wishes To give a trifle to some gu'l. Guido. Indeed, he is too much addicted — while I speak, I grieve to talk thus of him — Julio. Moral Lord ! Oh ! this is well. Go on ; and, Signior, you Who smile but once a week, (then not for joy,) — *You smile now ; yet, you must remember ("'tis • The reader is requested to observe that this mark* designates the com- 6 MIRANDOLA. Scarce two years since,) at Bala'> a pale girf,. Who lived so much in private ? Castl. Spare her : nay. She was unfortunate. Julio. And you ? Guido. Was kind. I know the story : touch not on it now . It is a melancholy tale, fit only For the fire-side and winter: some dull day, When the clouds leave a shadow on your brow, I'll tell it to you. Castl. Be content ; I was Her friend, — a father, but no more : believe 't. Julio. Must I ? Well, be it rf— but this hostess stays A long time 'ere she summons us, methinks. If I eat double 'tis no ftiult of mine. I may as well go in, — and Guido. But be civil. Julio. Civil ? I'll be as lovinir. CaMi. Ay, and brief In your discourse. GuiJo. I shall keep watch o'er you. Julio. And th' hostess ? Guido. Ay ; over both wolf and lamb. [Julio exit into the inn. mencement, and thisf the termination of every passage wbicli is omitted on Ihe representation of the Tragedy. MIUANDOLA. Casti. I never saw yoii in so gay a mood : Have you heard news ? Guido. No; — no. Casti. I fear IVe marred Your gaiety. Guido. Ah ! no : 'twas but a trick To cheat away sad folly. — I have heard Nothing : my courier never, as you know, Returned : my letters are unanswered : — From My father (yet he was kind once) I might have borne This fearful silence ; but from her — Oh ! her Whom like a star I worshipped. — Pshaw ! my eyes Are like a girPs to-day. IVe no doubt But all is well. Casti. I hope so. Guido. Ay ; / hope. Why should I fear ? — you do not fear .'' you know Nothing, good Casti, of my love .'' Casti. Nothing : be calm. Guido. I know not how it is ; But a foreboding presses on my heart At times, until I sicken.* — I have heard, And from men learned, that before the touch (The common, coarser touch) of good or ill, — That oftentimes a subtler sense informs Some spirits of the approach of ' things to be.' Fate comes before it's time ; like Hope or Fear Reverting on the soul, with surer aim. Casti. What more If 8 MIRANDOLA. Giiklo. Oh ! IVe a deep dull sense of pain to come Clinging upon my heart. Casti. So lovers talk ; And feel, perhaps.* Suspense to them is as A hideous ghost, changing it's shape for ever. Thus in wild evenings children's fears, you know, Shape devils out of shadows.-f- — Oh ! be gay. Morning will soon be here, and she you sigh for Will smile these dreams away. Guiclo. May it be so ! Let's talk no more of this at present. — Where Is Julio ? Casti. Likeliest by the cottage fire, Helping the pretty hostess. Gindo. I^et us go. You think, then, she Casti. Oh ! I think Not of her ; save that she is fair and true. Stifle these fears : why, in some three hours hence You'll see her Guido. So I shall, indeed. Casti. Let's drink Her health in purest water. Guido. No: in wine. Casti. In wine then, be it. High Falernian.^ Curio. Ay, In nectar. Wliy, methinks, these dreams of mine Are almost banished. Casti. With yourself remains MIRANDOLA. The power to do**!. Be lord of your own mind. The dread of evil is the worst of ill; *A tyrant, yet a rebel, dragging down The clear-eyed judgment from its spiritual throne, And leagued with all the base and blacker thoughts To overwhelm the soid.-|- But come, our friend Waits, and — the pretty hostess. Guido. There : my hand Is firm as 'tis in battle. Casti. So it is. Now then : nay, go you first. I'll follow. [Exeimt' SCENE II. A Garden of the DuMs Palace. IsiDORA, Isabella, HyroLixo. Isah. Cheer thee, dear sister: nay — these mournful looks Shame all our smiles. Hyp. Dear aunt ! Isah. Were I the Duke, I should be jealous of yovu* grief. Isid. Madam ! Isah. Indeed. — A jealous thing is happiness, — And delicate too, for round it all must be 10 MIUANDOLA. Wai-m like itself and pleasant, else it flies ; Like summer birds from winter. Isid. Yesterday, — Ifs ceremony and toil have worn me down. Forgive me for it : I am scarcely used As yet to yovu* court splendors. — I shall be A Duchess shortly, such as you could wish. I was not born, you know, to princely pomp, And it sits ill on me. Hypolito ! Why are i/ou sad, dear boy ? I thought I was The only mocker here. Isah. 'Wake, dreaming child ! Your aunt, the Duchess, speaks to you. H^p. Dear Lady. (Takes Isidoiia\s hand.) Isah. A pretty gallant : so, — in time he'll break A promise smoothly. Isid. I hope not ; yet there are None of his faithless sex who cannot feign. Isah. Except my brother ? Isid. Ay : except the Duke. But come, Hypolito ; I never hear Now how your falcon flies, nor of the barb Your uncle gave you. — How is this .'' it was A true Arabian, was it not ? Hyp. Indeed I scarcely know. I have not rid of late. Isah. He keeps his chamber, like a languid girl. And reads romance. — " Indeed, I scarcely know — ""' MlllANDOLA. 11 Why that was lisped forth hkc a girl. — For shame ! What do you know then, sirrah ? Hyp. Oh ! I know By heart, by heart, those gentle stories which My Aunt (before she was my Aunt) gave to me, And told me with a smile, such as I never Saw on her face again, — ' These lines were strung * By frenzied Tasso whom a princess scorned, * And these flew forth from Ariosto''s quill, ' And these sad Petrarch, who lamented long ' Laura his love, once writ ; and some there were ' Inscribed by great Boccaccio's golden pen, * Mirtliful and mournful, fit for every heart.' Isah. A pretty list : and is this all you read ? Oh ! I must look to you. — The father comes ; In haste, it seems. Gheraldi enters. Well, father .? Gher. The fair blessing of the day Rest on you all. — Madam, my duty bends Before you. Isid. I am thankful, father, for Your blessing. Isab. Thanks, Gheraldi ; but you came In haste. Sir : how was this ? Have any news Reached our so quiet place ? Hyp. I do not like the book you gave me, father. Isah. Silence ! — You do not answer, father. How ! 12 MIRANDOLA. Is'id. Come here, Hypolito, come. [IsiDoiiA and Hypolito talk apart. I sab. In your look I read a — somctliing that I would not read. The Duchess hears us not ; you need not drop Your eyes thus cautiously. Speak freely to me ; What is't ? Glier. Be patient. Madam : you Avill need Great store of patience. Guido Isah. Ha ; speak lower. — Hypolito ! Hij]p. Talk kindly to me. Isah. Well; Kiss me, and now begone : the father has Some words for me. Perhaps, dear sister, you Isxd. I was about to leave you. Isah. Do not think I wish that : but some business, such as you Would think but tedious, calls me hence. Isid. Farewell ! [Isidora and Hypolito exeunt. Isab. Father, if I can read your mind, (and now I ought to read it,) you have news will call My spLi-it into action : — Is it so ? Well ! I can act. How I can think, you know. How I will give my cunning force, and weave The subtle threads of many a project 'round My victim's brain, thou — thou shalt see. Gher. I have Not told my news. MIRANDOLA. 13 Isab. I see it 'ere you speak. It is of Guido : he has then discovered ? — Gher. Not so. Isab. Then all is well. Gher. Why, still not so. He has not yet discovered — Isah. Father, speak. Am I to guess and guess and still mistake, While you, with all the tidings on your tongue. Keep all from me ! What you know, boldly speak. Gher. Lord Guido, then, is well : that is some news ; For when we last heard of him, he lay sick Upon his bed at Naples. Isab. Yes, — go on. Gher. He knows not of his father's marriage yet : But being impatient at the silence which His Isidora, and his father kept. He left the South (forgetting smaller ills) And comes straight to Mirandola ! Isab. Indeed ! He must be stopped. Gher. He should have been, had I Known of his coming ; but he is here already. Isab. What ! not arrived ? GMr. In two hours hence he'll stand Before his father. Isab. Has the Duke yet learned His coming. 14 MIRANDOLA. Gher. No : Fve kept trie secret ; but It niitst be known, and quickly. Isab. And those letters — Those letters of the Duke ; they never reached Guido at Naples — of this you are sure ! Gher. Never ; nor those he wrote mito the Duke, Except that one first telling that he lived ; (Dead Gaspero was an honest knave to us — ) I hold them safe : for in them lies my life. Isnh. Why then go bravely to the Duke ; And tell him Guido comes: tell him, at once, That all the bright tears Isidora shed. Dropped for his son. Gher. Ha ! but / cautioned her (Uecause the Duke was jealous) when shelieard That he still lived and loved her, to conceal The name of Guido. — How shall this be answered ? Ifitth. Who can betray .'' Why did she many him ? Gher. Nay, — "'twas her mother''s want — Isah. Well, well : now go Unto the Duke (I know his humour well) And tell this. Of his marriage you can say Gher. What? Isah. You can hint that haply Guido may Clothe him in ignorance, — perhaps pretend He wrote to say he lived, and so forth : ha ? Tell him of Guidons friendship for those men — Those men who did rebel : and you can shew MIRANDOLA. 1 5 How good a casuist you are, father, wlien A doubt springs up ; and you can pour a balm (You have both sting and honey, hke the bee,) ' If there be need, and — pshaw ! I school my master. Gher. You flatter, gracious lady : you are still A keen displomatist : you surely cannot Need my poor service. Isah. What is this ?— Gheraldi ! What is it you ask ? Gher. Nothing : no, tho' you said Isah. I say so still : my interest at Rome Is great as ever. You shall have., be sure, The Cardinal's hat, when old Galotti dies. Gher. Have I your word for this ? IsaK Sir, be content ; I give my honourable word. Gher. Enough. Isah. And now farewell. Be careful, Sir ; Ay, and successful, and the conclave shall Have its most subtle spirit to boast of yet. ^YExU. Gher. Dear lady, fare you well. — Now for the Duke. He is as shifting as the April wind : And how to break this news I know not. Guido By this has got my letter, and knows that His love is here ; no more. And now — and now. Shall I go on ? Pshaw ! rather shall I doubt .^ Do I not see those earthly gods mine own, Power, wealth, high reputation, Q^o\y clieat !) 16 MIRANDOLA. Like dazzling siin-bcams on my stricken eye They blind, yet lead me onwards. I shall be A Cardinal : Aye, Pope perhaps. What more Need I to teach me wisdom ? Now for the Duke. {Exit. SCENE III. TJie Duke's private chamber, Duke and Isidora discovered — the Duke xoriting. Curio waiting. Duke. Here ; send this pacquet, my good Curio, Unto our brother Mantua : this dispatch Unto Modena. You have nothing else To speak of? Curio. Nothing, gracious Sir. Duke. Farewell. Yet stay, if — no, "'twas nothing : fai'e you well. [Curio exit Forgive me that I thus neglect you, love. — Why, my dear Isidora, yesterday Has worn you to a shadow. Isid. Oh ! not so. Duke. In faith it has. — Dear girl, I know you hate These empty pageantries. Jove ! so do I. rd rather be in battle, and weighed down MIRANDOLA. 17 By steel and iron tlian by these idle gauds. But we must play our part, my sweet one, in This silly world. Could I order things here. Half of the moon I'd waste in war : the rest I'd give to Cupid. Isid. So : not all to love then ? Duke. Why, no — yet I am wrong ; for Oh ! with you Who could desert the chamber for the camp ? Not I. I would be with you ever— ever. Isid. That were too long. Duke. Too long, my Isidora ? Isid. Ay : ' Ever ' is a long time, my dear lord : Love has no such eternity. Duke. Indeed! Isid. Indeed, 'tis so. Life even has its end ; And love cannot be longer sure than life. Duke. It is : or else 'tis nothing. — Did I think That in the narrow limit of this world Sweet love were bound — *Did / fear that beyond These earthy barriers (which our winged thoughts Still strive to over-fly, and still in vain,) Love were no resident,-|- I would — ^but you — You are a traitor to the rose crown'd God : I'll kiss you in revenge. Isid. You should not punish One who is ignorant only. Duke. Punish ! How ! 1ft MIRANDOLA. Will that be punishment ? I said that I Would kiss you, love. I,sid. I know it — in revenge. Duke. True ; in revenge. Revenge is bitter sweet : And in its rich completion lies as well Gall as oblivious balm : a paradox Of passion is revenge. 'Tween you and me, Fair Isidora, let it never live. Iskl. I hope not, Sir. Duke. It shall not. Mark ! I speak More boldly here than you. I know my heart : And your's too can I read. Lnd. What ! read my heart ? Duke. I spoke in jest : you tremble : I am calm (You see't) as conscious love — or fate — or death. Is'id. I'm often thus : pray take no heed of it. You trembled too, I thought. Duke. Feel that I do not. ^Puts out his hand. Isid. I did not note your hand, but thro' your voice There ran a tremulous chord which made me — think. Duke. Of what ? Is'id. That you were angry : nothing more. Duke. Oh ! then you far mistake me. I am not A leaf blown to and fro' by every breath : I am as stedfast as the oak ; — ay, more, *As little to be shook or turned aside From my vowed puqjose as the based rock, Which when the blasts of thundering winter tear MIRANDOLA. 19 The pines away from their strong rifted holds, Looks calmly as tho"" "'twere sun-shine still, — and smiles.-f* Isld. I am glad you are so calm. Duke. Why are you glad — why glad My Isidora ? You can ne'er have cause To dread my anger ? Isid. Oil ! I hope not. .Duke. You Could never dread me, Isidora ? Isid. Never. For never coidd I do you wrong, my lord. Duke. My own sweet love ! Oh ! my dear peerless wife ! By the blue sky and all its crowding stars I love you better — Oh ! far better than Woman was ever loved. There"'s not an hour Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee : There's not a wind but whispers of thy name, And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola. Speak, dearest Isidora, can you love As I do ? Can — but no, no ; I shall grow Foolish if thus I talk. You must be gone You must be gone, fair Isidora, else The business of the Dukedom soon will cease. I speak the truth, by Dian. Even now Gheraldi waits without (or should) to see me 20 MIllANDOLA. In faith, you must go : one kiss, and so, away. I,^id. Farewell, my lord. Diile. WeU ride together, dearest. Some few hours lience. liid. Just as you please ; farewell ! [Ej:if. DiilvC. Farewell ! With wliat a waving air she goes Along the corridor. How like a fawn ; Yet statelier. — Hark ! no sound however soft (Nor gentlest echo) telleth when she treads ; » But every motion of her shape doth seem Hallowed by silence. Thus did Hebe grow Amidst the Gods, a paragon ; and thus — Away ! I'm grown the very fool of love. Curio enters. Curio. The father — Diike. Bid him come. [Cumo CAiL I never saw My beauty look so well : *the summer light Becomes her, tho"' she shames it, being so fair. Methinks I\e cast full twenty years aside, And am again a boy. Every breath Of air that trembles thro' the window bears Unusual odour.-|- Gheraldi enters. Welcome, father, welcome: If you have any good to ask, be quick, For I am bountiful to-day. The tide Of my free humour cannot last — nor ought, MIRANDOLA. 21 Else should I soon be beggarM. What's i' the air ?- Some subtle sph-it runs thro' all my veins. Hope seems to ride this morning on the wind, And joy outshines the sun. Why, what is this ? Gher. My gracious lord ! Duke. Speak out. Your tone is cold As the ringing sound a footstep strikes from out The frosted earth. I am like spring, rejoicing. Father, I hate these mournful moods : I hate 'em. Be joyful, Sir, or look so. Gher. My dear lord, I have some news, which while this spirit lasts, I almost fear to tell. 'Twill strike cold on Your mind, my lord ; but — ^but it must be told. Your son, my lord, Duke. How ! well ; go on. Gher. Lord Guido will be here, my lord, within An hour. Duke. Again, Sir, — speak again. Gher. Your son. Lord Guido will be here within this hour. Duke. I'm glad to hear it. He uses little ceremony : well ! How learned you this ? Gher. His courier has arrived, Who left him scarce two hours ago : he then Was coming hither strait. Duke. Has he not written .'' 22 MIRANDOLA. Gher. He has not ; but — (and this indeed seems strang-e,) His servant says — tho'' this must be surmise — That liis young master still is igm)rant of Your highness"' marriage. Duke. That's impossible ! I wrote to him t\vice — more. Gher. Yes, Sir; but Duke. But what ? Speak ! Gher. Did your highness ever hear the name O' the friend the Duchess mourned so '^ Duke. Never : she Wished not to tell it ; so, altho"* my mind Dislikes such secrets, I have never asked. Gher. Lord Guido then never confided his — Attachment to you .'' Duke. His — his.'^ Never. Gher. Never.'' Duke. Never. I feel a faintness ocr me. Never. Did he— did he— Gher. Another lime, my lord, Lefs speak of this. As to your son's return Duke. Monk ! I must have your answer. Gher. Well : I have heard My loid, that lie Duke. I hsten : go on. MIRANDOLA. 23 \ Gher. That he Once loved the Duchess. Dvke. How ! great Heaven ! am I Awake ? Gher. I would not have disclosed this tale To your Highness, but Diike. Be silent. Can it be That he (I know not what I say) has been Deceived .'' Gher. Your Highness wi'ote to him before Your marriage ? — No. Dulie. No; notbefor't: we thought That he was dead ; yet when the news (glad news I thought it,) came that still he lived, I sent Direct to Naples. Gher True ; by Gaspero. Dvke. But wherefore,— nay, how was 't you dared conceal From me that he had loved her ? Speak to that Gher. I thought it a boyish fancy, soon to change. Yet that he loved her once, (madly) I can Avouch. Duke. He is not apt to change. Gher. Why that— When first I knew he had not written home, Struck on my mind. I own it. Duke. \aside.'\ — Upon mine It falls as cold as winter. You should not Have kept it from me. 'Twas a fault. 24 MIRANDOLA. Gher. Nay, Sir, — DuJce. O Heaven ! had I but known for whom those tears Were shed : — but still she weeps : Ah ! wherefore still ? He is alive. GJier. My lord ! Duhe. Perhaps he comes Here to reproach or make a shew of grief: Perhaps — Did you not speak ? Gher. Yes, Sir ; your son DnJce. Did I not watch him thro' his headstrong youth. This fault forgiving and forgetting that — His friendship with that false Vitelli, whom I hate as I hate shame — ^his strange request For those three rebels (that was never cleared) Marni, Saletto, Rossi ? you know this. Gher. If I might but advise — Duke. Be dumb, Sir. I Can be my own good counsel. Did I not Write, and so kindly too ? *Did — did he come Quite straight from Naples ? GJier. Yes, my lord ; I hear He only staid at Count ViteUi's house ; And there not long. Dulce. At Count Vitelli's? He Can never pass that traitor's den. What spell Doth drag him there .'' Gher. None that I know of. Sir, 13ut,f may I now advise .^ If aught be wrong MIRANDOLA. 25 Touching Vitelirs friendship with your son. (Tho' I hope nothing is wrong) or — or if He loves the lady Isidora still, DuJce. Death ! thou false monk ! — Sir, if your tongue but utter A word of that — What ! love her ? love ! GJier. I meant Duke. You said he loved. Glier. Did I ? pray pardon me. This news has ruffled me, my lord. I beg That you 11, forget. My mouth is filled to-day With errors. Duke. Yet should he indeed love her .'' GJier. If then, my lord, your son should but pretend To love, and urge you to injustice Duke. Ha! That's well — well thought of. Oh ! there'*s many a knave About me (that I feel) too ready still To second old Vitelli's bloody hand. Can he be foe to me ? I will not think it. Yet I'll be calm, and wary. Gher. Some one comes. [Carlo enters. Carlo. Your Highness ! Duke. Speak ! Carlo. Lord Guido will be here Almost — Duke. Go to him, good Gheraldi. Leave us. [Carlo exit. 26 MIRANDOLA. Receive him, father, and before he conies To nie, inform liim (mark if honestly He take the news,) that I am married. — When You have told this, say that I wish his presence : Yet, first announce him ; so I may learn how far His soul is bent to cunning. Gher. I am gone. Duke. Take good note. Sir. Gher. I will. Duke. Be sure you do ! yEa'Cunt separately. t END OF ACT THE FIRST. ACT II. SCENE I. A Court-yard before the Palace. Gheraldi. Gher. He must not see the Duchess yet. These scenes Of tears and quarrel but ill suit a court ; And the Duke loves decorum. — Now have I Been confidant to father, and to son, — To her (by virtue of my calhng) — her. And the proud Isabella. Had I not A cowl, I fear a blush at times might tell A story. Guido knows his love is here ; (Thus much IVe written to him,) but that she Is Duchess here, he knows not : so, — he comes. Guido. [without.'] Ha ! ha ! — well, as you please : I shall expect you. Guido enter s.^ and is passing over in haste. Gher. My lord ! lord Guido ! Guido. Ha ! Gheraldi, you ? Where's Isidora ? Is my father well ? 28 MIRANDOLA. GJier. Your fatlier bids- Guido. I'll see him presently : But where'^s my love ? Gher. He has commanded me Gu'ido. Not now, not now. Where is she ? Gher. First, hear the Duke's message ; nay. Gu'ido. Now by my soul, I shall be angry with you. Say to your lord some ten, — five minutes hence, I'll seek him in his study. You oppress me. What do you mean that thus you shake your head In silence — or is't sorrow ? — Ha ! she's dead .'' Gher. Not so, my lord. Guido. Why all is well then ; — ^yet, (What do you mean ?) you seem to mock my joy. And lay a leaden hand upon the wings Of all my hopes. — Oh ! Isidora, where, AVhcre axe you loitering now when Guido's here.'* By the bright god of love, FU punish you. Idler, and press your rich red lips until The colour flies. Gher. My lord : nay, do not frown. I have a story of deep interest. Sir. It is my duty (my sad duty now,) To break unto your car some tidings. Guido. Quick ! Gher. Your father, my dear lord, is married. Guido. So. MIRANDOLA. 29 Gher. Reasons of state — Guide. Keep "'em, good Monk, I have no stomach now For any food but love. Gher. Strong reasons did induce my lord ('twas when You were reported dead) to seek a bride. He left the common course that monarchs use, And chose from out the land he governed, one Who might have shamed the world. Giiido. That was not well. At least. Gher. I mean she was so fair, my lord. Guido. I mark you. Well ? Gher. My lord your father (urged By some state policy, and fearful lest Your death should snap the link your friendship formed 'Tween him, and Count Navarro,) — Guido. Chose his daughter ? Gher. No ; not — not thus. Guido. How then ? Speak 1 Is my heart Bursting ? What is 't I fear ? My very soul Is sick, and full of some dismay, as tho' Fate were upon me. If — I dare not ask : I dare not, tho"* a word would end it all. Gheraldi ! no, no, no : silence awhile : I will not hear thee now. Oh ! heaven and earth ! If it were so — it cannot be : it shall not. Yet if it were Oh ! Isidora, you. What 1/ou — She is as constant as the stars 80 MIRANDOLA. That never vary, and more cliaste than they. Forgive, forgive me that I slander thee Even in dreams. Gheraldi, now Fll Hsten, And you shall tell your tale. I was a fool Just now. Forgive me, father: — now. GJicr. I said your father did desire a bride From out his realm. Navarro's dauohter then Was woo'd ; now she is married : but he had Two nieces. Gimlo. Ay, I see't. My father saw The lady Julia : yes, I see how 'twas ; It was so, was it not ? Gher. He saw her there. Guido. Ay, ay : she was a pretty girl when last I was at home : and so he married her ? Gher. He saw them both, Sir, with a favouring eye. The lady Isidora then in tears Guido. True ; they might not become her : yet she's fair. When joy is in her eye 'tis like the light Of Heaven : blue, deep and ethereal blue. I would not wish a life more beautiful ; And, were she but a Saint, I'd worship lier. Sad Isidora ! Did thine eyes indeed Shower diamond drops for me? My gentle love ! *But Guido (thine) is come at last to kiss The tears away for ever. Happiness Looks out to find thee ; shall it look in vain ! Gher. May I proceed, my lord ? MIRANDOLA. 31 Oiiido. I had forgot. Where were we ? . Gher. I was telling tliat-f* your father Saw Count Navarro"'s nieces, and preferred The elder. Guido. You — ^you said he married Jidia. Gher. No, my lord : no. Guido. Whom then ? it cannot be. Gher. My lord ! I Guido. Monk ! speak out : Curse on my trembling. One word — a single word. Now : — tho' your breath Carry damnation (as I think it does) To every hope of mine, be quick, quick. — Now. Stun me with sorrow, lest I feel too much. And slay thee. What's her name — my father"'s bride ? Gher. 'Tis Isidora. Guido. Thou has doneH. Gher. My lord ! Look up, my Lord ! So — there : you're very pale. Nay, for your father's sake. Guido. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Gher. Lord Guido ! I — Gheraldi — speak to you. Oh ! well : I see you know me now Not so. Nay, look more cheerfully. — You're better now ? Guido. Thou — thou knew'st all my love. Thou busy priest — Gher. Mv lord. 32 MIRANDOLA. Guido. Thou pander to my fathcr"'s wish, (He is no father, I disown liini.) Thou — Thou busy meddling ]\Ionk. Gher. My lord, my lord, Tliis is not well ! Guido. Away ! my mother ? Oh ! m?/ mother was As pure as purity. I will not talk Of her who is — yet oh ! what pity "'tis That one so fair should now be full of blots. And that a face which love had breathed upon Should now be scarred all over. Once, I thought That in her eyes, (how beautiful tliey were !) Her soul shone out. Gher. If you will let me speak — Guido. But she is grown a harlot in my sight. What ! married to my father, to my father ! What ! smile upon the son, and wed the sire, Because — there''s some strange cause. What blinding spell Is there now hung between us and the Moon, That dims the sights of women ? There''s a cause : I dare not guess : I will not. G/ier. May I speak ? Guido. Father Gheraldi, you have done your errand. Tell the Duke of Mirandola, his Son Is now at ease. — Say that the news at first Was somewhat stirring : but that he — ay, he Forgives — forgets ; no, never, never can MIRANDOLA. 33 That soon forgot tliat all his life was blighted. Say what you will, Sir. Gher. But your father, now, Expects you. Guido. I'm too gallant, Sir ; so tell him. I'll pay my duty to the Duchess first ; Unto my — mother, since it must be so : And when we have discussed some words, why then I'll meet him. No more words, Sir.— Now, farewell ! [Exeunt at different sides. SCENE II. A Hall in the Palace. Enter Isabella, meeting Casti and Julio. Isah. Welcome unto Mirandola. Casti. Many thanks. Isab. Ah ! Signior Julio ! give you welcome. Sir. Julio. *I thank you. Madam, thank you heartily. A little leisure is welcome even to me. Isah. You have not lost your spirits in the wars ? Julio. No Madam, much the same ; I'm still, at least, Your servant ever. Isah. Oh ! Sir,f we shall try Your gallantry to-day : the Duke hath ordered 34 MIRANDOLA. A feast in lionour of his son. — Count Casti, You've seen my brother ? Casti. Madam? Isab. You arc wrapt In study, Sir : some fosse, or counterscarp, Or siege, or ambuscade then filletl your brain. Casti. No, Madam, none. Isah. Brief answer. — Have you seen My brother yet .'* Casti. I have not. Isab. He will be Rejoiced to see you. Ah ! — yes, it is he. Julio. Faith, 'tis the Duke : he looks more young than ever. Casti. Now, to my mind, his eye is filled with care. Duke enters. Diike. Ha ! gentlemen, and friends, I'm glad to see Such faces at Mirandola. Casti. My lord. We are your son's companions. Dulie. So I hear : Tliercfore, ye are more welcome, Signior, [To Julio.] I Have heard of your good acts. Your sword is didled With carnage, I am told. Fair faces here Have smiled, and gentle hearts have wished you well. Julio. My Lord ! Buke. Indeed I hear 'twas so. Isah. 'Tis true. MIRANDOLA. 35 Dulce. Signior, your deeds have filled the mouth of fame, And you too have admirers ; none more true Than I. [Takes Casti's hand. Casti. My lord, you do me honour. Duke. Sir, I do myself much honour thus to take A good man by the hand. You are not all Soldier, and yet enough : I do not love All courtier : I myself, you know, was once Something (not much) o' the soldier. Julio. Oh!— Casti. My lord, You have fought bravely ; that the world well knows. Julio. Your foes especially, my lord. Duke. Oh ! no. I drew the sword for pastime : you for right. Shall I not see my son .'* Isab. He will be here Speedily. Julio. If I am right, I saw him talk Just now with the confessor, old Gheraldi. I'll bid him come to you. Duke. Not so : stay, Sir. I'll wait for my son's leisure. He is tired Perhaps, and his too sensitive nature asks Some quiet 'ere he sees me. — ^You have been With him throughout the war, Sir, have you not } D 2 36 MTRANDOLA. Casti. I liave, my lord. Duke. I mean, attached to tlie same Battalion ? Casti. 'Twas so. Duke. Was he sad, or gay ? Casti. He has a natural gaiety that sits Pleasantly on him, when no ill 's at hand : But he is soon depressed and latterly Duke. Well latterly — ^j-^ou stop ? [Isabella draws Julio aside. Casti. Of late, He has been ill, (wounded you know,) and grief — Some secret sorrow wearing down his heart, Has paled his cheek, and thinned it : and at times, Yxe seen him fretted much beyond his custom. Duke. Indeed ! then must it be The sun, (there is no cause beside,) — the Sun Hath burnt these humours on him, and perhaps Quickened the wholesome current of his blood, 'Till it outruns ifs channels : *then, you know. Come fevers, and in the abused brain Distraction ; so, before the sight diseased Shadows will stalk, and ghosts of unreal ills : Filling the bloated fancy 'till it bursts : These things I know.-|- — But Guido ? Casti. Oh ! he will Grow fresh again, now that his father's arms Are open. MIRANDOl.A. 37 Julkf. And his love's. Duke. True, Signior, — as you say, I see Gheraldi True ; my arms are open. Excuse me, Signior Casti ; I shall soon See you again. Once more I bid you welcome. You will not fail my banquet. Casti. We are much Honored, my lord. Julio. My lord, we • Isab. Come, Signior, you'll go with us ; I have some things to say. Dnlce. Why doth the Friar loiter .? Sirs, farewell ! Julio. We take our leave, my lord. [Exeunt Isabella, Julio, and Casti. Dul-e. He motions and retires.— Well, for the present I must shake hands with patience, and be still. *The day is lowering. What a beaming morn It was ; (ay, so was mine,) and now the clouds Hano- round about like some fierce accident Which comes upon us as we think to reach Safely our homcf— Now, should this boy have been Cheated — it cannot be ; old Gaspero When he returned to die, gave fair account Of the delivery of my letters. — When I see him I will look into his soul : And yet whene'er I see him (True son of dead Bianca,) her pale smile And scornful eye shoot thro' my very heart. 301.24:7 38 MIUANDOLA. I would that I could tliiiik he meant nic fair ; Why should I think him guilty — is he not My son ? Ah ! did I mean his Mother fair? And yet my will has made him now my heir ? Passing my Sister'^s son. — Can he still love her ? Ha ! the Monk passes. So, now for the news. [Exii. SCENE III. An Apartment of' the Btuhess. IsiDORA enfers. hid. He comes, he comes ; and I must sec him, loo. Oh ! that I must. — Not yet. — I must, I must. Hark ! no, it is not he : It is my heart. Will it not burst ? My throat is full and choaking. God ! look upon me now, and save me ! — Save ! He"'ll come and curse me — and it will be good ; For I have stolen his heart away, and flung Mine own to ruin. — Ruin ! Oh ! that I Could tell him all about my cruel lot, And how I was betrayed, and lost for ever. That Monk advised me — Oh ! no more of that. Ha ! some one comes. GuiDO enters. Giudo. \after a pause. ^^ Madam, I come to pay My duty to you. MIRANDOLA. 39 Isid. Welcome; you are welcome. Guido. I come to see how well her bridal chess Becomes the Duchess of Mirandola. Isid. You liave been well, I hope ? Guido. Since when ? Isid. Since you — You and I parted. Guido. Thafs a long time, now. I have forgot : how is 't that i/ou remember ? Isid. I — I — Oh ! pity me. Guido. Weep, lady, weep. Tears (yet theyVe bitter) purify the soul, But your's is fair ? — I know they ease the heart. Mother ! Isid. Oh ! Guido, — cruel, cruel, cruel ! Guide, [aside. ^ By Heaven, my covu-age begins to fail ; and I (jrow womanish. Now let me wring her heart. As she wrung mine. — ^Ah ! there she weeps away Almost to dissolution. How she bends, Like one who sickens with remorse or love ; And she, perhaps, has been betrayed. — Alas ! Poor Isidora ! Isid. Ah ! — ^you spoke ? — ^you spoke .'* Guido. 'Twas nothing. Isid. Nothing .-^ It was all to me. 'Twas happiness-^no, that is gone : 'twas Hope : 'Twas pardon. Oh ! my lord, (Guido no more,) 40 MIRANDOLA. What luive I clone that you can use me thus r I would not for tlie world, for all the world, Put you to such great sorrow. Guido. Shall I tell you ? Ishl. Yes. Guido. Listen to me, tlien. When you were young— You are young still, and fair ; the more's the pity : But in the time I speak of, you were just Bursting from childhood — with a face as fail- As tho' you had lookVl in Paradise, and caught It's early beauty : then, your smile was soft, x\s Innocence before it learns to love. And yet a woman's passion dwelt within Your heart, as warm as Love. — But I am wrong ? lild. Oh ! no. I loved — Guido. Indeed ? Isid. Indeed, indeed. Guido. Well! — There was one who loved you too. He said That every hope he had rested on you. He worshipped you, as Idols are adored In countries near the sun. He gave liis heart So absolutely up, that had he thouglit Then, that you would desert him, he'd have slain Himself before you. You were his home, liis heaven. His wealth, his light, his mind, and life substantial. But tlien lie went away to the fierce wars, (His honor was pledged for it,) and he left MIRANDOLA. 41 You with an oath upon your soul behind. 'Twas said he died — Isid. One said he saw you fall. Guido. 'Twas said he died, and that she grieved awhile, In virgin -svidowhood for him. At last, A Duke — a reigning Duke, with wintry hair. And subtle spirit, and — without a heart, Came wooing to her, and so — you do not heed me — And so she dried her tears, and (tho' the youth Wrote that he lived,) she laugh'd, and left the son. To marry with the father. Isid. And you wrote To me .? Guido. To you, and him. Isid. I feared 'twas so. *NoAv Heaven help me ; for I'm wound about By their strong toils, and there is no escaping. Oh ! I am worn, and broken down by grief -f* I dare not hope that you'll believe me, yet That letter, Guido — Oh, I never knew it ; I had no letter — saw no letter. Guido. What ! I wrote to you from Naples : from my bed Where I lay languishing, by Gaspero, My father's servant. Why, I wrote — (l^as there Been cozening here !)— unto my father: he Will not deny 't. Where is that slave ^ Isid. Gaspero ? He is dead. 42 MIUANDOLA. Guide. He was my father's servant. Could he be Unfaithful? No. Isid. Your father prized him much. Oil ! it is too clear : we are both imdone. Guido. It may be ; — nay, it is. But, 'ere I sink, I will be righted some way, or revenged. What ! does he think to cheat me now, and wear His prize abroad so boldly. — before mc ? ril have revenge. Isid. He is your father, Guido. Nay- Guido. I disown him. He has lost his son. Some parents shut their children from their homes, (Young boys and gentle girls) but / abjure My father in his age : let him go down Into his grave alone. Isid. Do not incense him. Guido. Whom ? Isid. The Duke. Guido. You re right. Call him no more my father. No ; I'll talk As one man with his equal ; or, perhaps, I may wear something of superior scorn. And drop a word or two of charity ; But that will be for thy sake, my poor girl ! Nay, dry your tears : and let us part awhile. Isid. Farewell. Guido. Oh ! not farewell yet. I but go To see the Duke. When shall we meet again .^ MlilANDOLA. 43 Isid. We must not ; yet — Guido. We will, we will, once more. Isid. Hark ! — hush ! your father comes. Guido. Why, that is well. We will (I'm glad oFt) say at once good morrow, Without more ceremony. Isid. No ; not now. Not now, I cannot bear it. — Nay, for me. Guido. That is a charm I cannot disobey. Isid. Quick, quick, becomes! Guido. Well meet again. Remember ! [Isid. exil^ Curio enters. Well, Sir? Curio. My lord ; his highness waits for you. Guido. Where is he ? Curio. In his private chamber, Sir. Guide. Tell him, I come. [CuRio exit. Now, thou false Fortune, am I still thy fool ? Shall I see him, and, like a cheated child. Believe each word he utters ? — He was kind Once, amidst all his pride, to me : but now He has (has he not ?) — robbed me — stolen away The gem 1 love beyond the whole vast world. And with a selfish vanity, here, before My very eyes, he wears it to my shame — His shame, and my deep sorrow. Now, my heart, I have known thee firm in danger, droop not now ! [Exit. EXD OF ACT THE SECOND. ACT III. SCENE I. {The Duke pacing up and down his room — at last he stops.) Duke. Hark ! He stays long — ^but Isidora is Prudent, I think, — I hope. His blood is quick, But I wiU not doubt. Why should he loiter at Vitelh^s house, — that traitor's ? — He stays long, — A month ago and I was happy ! No ; Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy. Which tho' 'twas all around, I could not touch. But it was ever thus with Happiness : It is the gay to-morrow of the mind That never comes. — Hark ! no ! 'twas but a door That shut. And is my soul in such dismay. That every petty whisper of the wind Can scare me ? Once— but that is passed, and now Each sound is laden and each shadow filled With fears : like exhalations in the dusk 46 MIRANDOLA. They rise before me, whcresoe'er I tread. Who's tJiere? Curio enters. Curio. Lord Guide Is now without, my lord. Dulc. Bid him come in. [Cuino eait. There is a strange confusion in my mind : Perhaps my son, hke a fair morning light, May dispel all. He is here : — ^how pale he looks. GuiDO enters. Guido. I am come, my lord. Diike. I, — I rejoice to see you. I am proud To know my son has won so good a name. Your honours will shame mine. Well, well, so be it. On you has fallen now the task to lift The fair and great name of Mirandola. You have been absent long : too long. Guido. My lord ! Duke. I am your father, Guido, Guido. Oh ! much more ; You are the Prince. Duke. But still your father : nay — Guido. My lord, there are some things whicli, little used. Soon rust : such is respect. The name of Prince Brings to the memory of many men What they might else forget. MTRANDOT.A. 4T. Dtike. There is no cause For this between us. Gu'ido. Pardon me : for once Give me my humour. DiiJce. As you please, — for once. Come let us sit. What cause have you for this ? Guido. Cause ! but — but let it pass. Dul:e. Dear Guido. Guido. Sir ! Duke. I do not understand — Guido. And yet it is As plain as day — as the full risen day. But let us sit : with all my heart. [Duke sits. Duke. I am Distressed, my son, to hear — Guido. Ha ! have you heard ? Duke. I hear the words you speak. Guido. But understand not. Was it not so, my lord ? You liear — Duke. I hear, And see, and feel that now my only son, And the first subject of my Dukedom, dares To spurn his Prince, — his father; putting off The garb of love, and — Guido. Right : it is a cloak ; Under whose folds, fathers as well as sons. Do things to shame the stars. Duke. Guido, by Heaven ! — 48 MIRANDOLA. But tliis — this is not well, my son, no more of it. I sent for you by the Confessor — Gu'ido. Ay, That you may in my car unload your mind Of some dark secret ; what is 't ? Speak, my Lord. If you have done aught that may leave a blot On the bright annals of our house, confess, And I will be as secret as deceit. If you have been a tyrant, *and enslaved The bodies or the minds of noble men, Why, let me know it : or, if you have been As poisonous as the serpent, or have mined. Mole-like, your way beneath your neighbours house, And shook down all his hapjiiness, confess it : Or if, like the wilderness creature, you have prey'd Even upon your young, I bid you still To tell me and take comfort.-}- Duhe. I have been Silent, my son — Guido. Not so, not so ; and yet you were in truth : When slander came abroad, and I was absent, You kept a politic silence ; thus I've heard : And, when I fell, you wept and kissed away The brioht warm tears from Isidora's cheek. But I rose up again : — I rose, my lord. Up from my bed of battle, and while the blood Hardened upon my wounds, I traced, with weak And shaking fingers, a poor scrawl, reminding MIRANDOLA, 49 Her of our love : you start ? our love I said ; And you — ^you kept it from her. Speak ? was 't so ? There''s no one to betray you : should you blush, I'll hush your virtue, like a murder, up. Duke. Guido, you go too far : no more of this. Guido. No more ? Duke. You'll anger me — I tell you this For the last time. My blood is hot as your's. Guido. Much hotter. Noble lord, if I may speak — Duke. You may not. Sir. Death ! shall I stand and suffer These insolent taunts from you, my son, my slave, My- Guido. Slave ! Duke. Ay, Sir, whatever may suit my humour. Guido. Your highness's humour changes, that I know. Duke. Sir, tho' it shift as often as the wind, 'Tis not for you to mark it. 'Tis my humour, My spleen, my will. Curio enters. Curio. Did my lord call ? Duke. Begone. If then another word — I said, begone. [Curio exit. But no, no, no : no more of this : no more. Guido. Then, you deny ? Duke. Ah ! Guido, this will bring E 50 MIRANDOLA. Bitter repentance, in some after day ; Till then be silent — still. Guido. Ohl I will be As silent as the grave you've dug for me. *I"'ll be as wary as the fox, and subtle, But like the adder, when I^n questioned, deaf. And should you fall, (Princes may fall, my lord, As the red leaves in autumn, — nay in spring ;) If your own tyranny, or others hate, Rebels at home, or cozening friends abroad, Or open foes should cast you down at last, — Fear not ; I will be there ; close^at your heart, Just like the canker when the tree decays.-}* Duhe. When you have ended, Guido. I have said, — ^have done. Duke. You have ; and had I not Some of that kindly blood, which you deny. You must have spoken les'%. Guido, you Have done me shameful wrong ; but I have been Patient, — as patient as my nature might : I have born words ; such words as never prince Yet bore before from subject, or from son. Guido. Perhaps,' — Duke. Speak out. Guido. Perhaps, I have been warm ; But, no, — no. Duke. As you please. Your humour turns Quickly as mine, it seems ; but it shall be My humour to forget. If, after this. MIEANDOLA. 51 In your dlstenipcr\l jiulgmcnt — but no more. — Your mother — Guido. Ah ! indeed no more, no more. Duke. The Duchess of Mirandola expects To see you. Come, I will go with you, — now. Guido. I — I have seen her. Duke. So : 'twas well. Guido. I bade Gheraldi tells you that I had gone thither. Dulce. 'Tis true ; he told me (I remember now,) That you had gone to pay your duty there. She was rejoiced to see you ? Guido. No; not much. Dulce. How .'' not rejoiced ? it was not well to meet My son, and not rejoice; but you must pardon. She has been ill, and the full sinnmer moon Sways at will women's fancies. Guido. You ai'e gay. » - Duke. Why not .'' I have my wife here, and my son The one is beautiful, the other brave. I have no curse that clings to me : no fear That enemies or *friends can do me harm. There's not a traitor in the realm could live Now undetected. Guido. Traitors ! there are none. Duke. Oh ! be not sure. When first the snake puts on His summer-skin, he looks not loathsome : 'tis E 2 52 MIRANDOLA. When he's contract and wrinkled, we begin To fear or hate hini.-j* — But these things are not Fit for a day hke this. We should be gay. Guklo. I'll do my best. Duke. Who can ask more ? Come then ; *We'll speak no more of the serpent ; yet it was The circling emblem of eternity, And in its terrible folds this world and all Its host of strange and proud inhabitants, With proud men at the head, was compassed once. If 'twere so now, it would be well, methinks. If the lithe thing would draw its sinuous shape Closer and closer, till— but I forget The festival. Guklo. You do in truth, my lord : That was a curious fancy. Duke. Heed it not: I speculate at times, as well as you.f But you must alter. You must be gay. In dress as looks. Now let us part. We 11 meet Presently, in the feasting room. Guklo. I will Be with you presently, redressed. {Exit. Duke. Farewell. Redress'd ! — Now, what a querulous boy is this, Cheatino- his spleen widi words. Insolent words ! — Yet he's my son, — poor, poor Bianca's son. Shall I not curb my fretful nature, when MIRANDOLA. 53 I think of him ? — Ah ! yes — I'll strive to think Not ill of him. — He bears an honest shew. Were this a time for questioninf]^, IVl ask Touching those letters, and Vitelli's plots — 'Tis not; — perhaps to-morrow. If he should Have been abused. — How much his paUid smile Shone like Bianca"'s. Oh ! I'll love him yet ; And he shall love me too : and yet — and yet — Ah ! thus my fiery and suspicious nature Preys ever on itself. — I will be calm. [Exit. SCENE I. A Chamber in the Palace. IsiDORA and Isabella enter. Isah. Dear sister, had your face little more mirth How much you'd grace the feast. Isid. Must I then wear A mask, my lady ? Isdb. No : no need of that. But what has troubled you ? Isid. O, nothing, nothing. Isah. Nay, now you deal not fairly with my love. Isid. Well, he — Lord Guido has been with me. Isah. Yes. 54 MIRANDOLA. hid. He's full of grief: that's all I did not weep For tliat. Isah. He must not shew this sorrow at the feast To-day: The Duke is (juick, and apt to doubt. Bid liim be cautious there Is'id. AVe will not meet Again, tho' we had purposed. Guido has Told all : one word vmto liis old regard He gave, and so we parted. Isah. This I know. Isid. You know. Isah. Ay, my sweet sister : I have seen, — Had you but seen him, too, and lieard him sigh, It would have moved you. When he said he had Not even a token to remember you, I promised — Isid. What? Isah. Be not alarmed, dear sister. But I believe, I promised one : Indeed Some message yovi should send, for if a word (An idle word) escape by chance to-day — The Duke is jealous. Isid. Ah ! whom can I trust ? Isah. True ; — all about the Duke are cunning ; stay- I'U be your messenger ; but you must give The token for him : else he'll not believe. What bauble shall it be, sister ? Ha ! this, — This will be excellent. MIRANDOLA. 53 Isid. Not that. If you Must have some pledge, take this : that ruby ring Was the Duke's gift, and 'tis a favourite. Isab. Shame ! He will not recognize so poor a thing As this for your's. Give me your hand ; in faith It is a white one. Now, were I a man I'd kiss it, sister, thus. [Takes the ring. Isid. Nay, nay; return That ring to me : I pray you — do return it. Isab. What shall I say to him ? Isid. Give me the ring. — The ring. Isab. ni trust then to my thoughts ; and I May strengthen your entreaties with my own. Should he look sad on you, or smile, the Duke Would madden ^vith strange fears, beheve 't. Isid. Indeed, I did not know that he— Hark ! hark ! who comes ? Isab. Perhaps the Duke. Isid. Ha ! then I'll leave you — nay, I must. [Exit. Isab. Farewell. I hate her not, tho' her pale face Reproaches me. Poor victim ! she is in My toils,— but 'tis to make my child a prince. That base-born,— he has been preferr'd to mine, I and my rights were trampled down — ^lia ! noAV for My message. GuiDo enters. Giiidu. Must I then put on a look, 56 MIRANDOLA. And say I am content to all that is, — To all that has been ? Well, "'tis for her sake ; And what would I not do for her, tho"" she — She has abandoned me. Poor girl, poor girl ! It is too late to grieve. Isab. What study's this ? Dear Guido, are you plotting ? Guido. How ! I am As innocent — Isab. Against the Duchess and the Duke ? nay, nay, I know All, Sir ; your meetings, and her tears. Beware The Duke. Guido. My heart's as innocent — Isah. I know it, but the Duke Is jealous ; — that's the word : and you must not Awaken him. See ; do you know this ring ? 'Tis Isidora's. Guido. Ha ! Isah. She sent it to you. I told her of your grief — (Nay, do not chide,) And got this — it will serve, tho' love is over. To bind your friendship fast. Guido. She sends me that ? Isah. She sends you this, and bids you smile to-nio-ht. Guklo. nido't: but 'twas not needful. Isab. You will do This for— MIRANDOLA. 57 Guido. For friendship, Madam, and no more. Isab. Take care 'o the ring. Hush ! here comes one who need not know it. Well ! — Well, father.? Gheraldi enters, Gher. Madam, is the Duchess here ? Isab. She''s gone. Gher. The Duke is waiting, and the feast Prepared. My lord, your friends are there already. Guido. I shall be with them. Sir. Isab. Come hither, father. \.They talk- Guido. A feast — for what ? And yet 'tis always thus- Why do I quarrel with 't ? When a man dies They feast and shout — and when a child is bom : And when a father thrusts his last pale girl Into the arms of age (ah, death !) they feast, Revel, and dance, and laugh, and mock the night (The modest ear of night) with riot ! — Oh ! Why sliould I quarrel with it ? I am now The puppet of the day — ^but I forget : Now for his highness' feast — I Avill remember. [To Isab. Exit. Isab. I'll follow you. Gher. 'Twas a bright star that guided you to-day. Isab. But should we not — Ha ! let me think. Gher. I have Been with the Duke ; he thought himself at ease, But with a word I started him : he tried To laugh away his doubts, and I agreed S8 MIRANDOLA. That tliey were nought ; and then »iq>j)0scd a case — Isab. Ha ! that was well. Ghcr. But he sprung up Sternly and bade me go : and swore he was Content : and then re-echoed my own words, On this I essayed again, but all his spirit Burst forth, and I was ordered straight to quit him. Isab. He says he*'s satisfied .'* Gher. Madam, his tongue Proclaims it ; but his hand and troubled e3'e Give fierce denial, — there's that in his heart. Which some day must uproot it. But for the ring ? [Music without. Isab. Come this way, and we'll talk : the feast is ready. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Banqnctting Room. — Nobles and Ladies assembled. Julio aiid Casti entering. Julio. This is a ijallant shew. Casti. Indeed a fair one : And yet, 'tis but a shew. Julio. How do you mean ? Casti. Oh ! nothing : merely what I say, no more. MIRANDOLA. 59 JuTw. In faith you puzzle me : ha ! what a face Look, my dear Casti. Do you see that girl Whose hair is bound with pearls ? her cheek is like Pshaw ! — like — like Casti. Like a young rose opening slowly, Kissed by the breath of May. Jtdio. I love a rose. Casti. *Sir, she was fashioned by the self-same hand. And >\ith more prodigal beauty than the rose ; Look at her, she will bear a closer glance. ""Tis old Cornelia''s child, Camiola — You ' love a rose'' .'' Kiss her, she'll taste as sweet. Isabella enters. Julio. I dare not. Casti. Right : I am her cousin. Sir ; But I will make you known.-j- Lord Guido comes. GuiDo enters. Guido. My father ? Casti. Is not come yet. Let me touch Your hand. Guido. Excellent Casti ! — * Julio, look ! My aunt Has smiled for you this minute. Julio. I am gone. Guido. Am I the hero of this fete, dear Casti ? Casti. You are, and you must honor it. Guido. I will : It is the last. — Hark ! hark ! I hear a sound ; 60 MIRANDOLA. Oh ! slie is coming. Casti. I hear nothing — nothing. Come, be a man. Guido. A wretch. — Now then you hear. Casti. Ay, now : youVe quick of ear. Guido. Ha ! ha ! a man who''s flayed alive Avill feel The merest touch : 'tis tlius with me : my ear Hath drunk in burning tidings ; scalding words Have been thrust near my brain.f {Music is heard. Casti. Your father comes. Julio. Madam, the Duke is coming. Gentlemen, His Highness. Duke and Isidora enter. Dulce. Sit ; Oh ! sit. — No more of this Authority puts off her state to-day, And for once, we are equal. — Where's my son ? Gentlemen ! Friends ! I give you all a welcome. Where is my son ? Guido. My lord ! DuK'e. Here is an old Acquaintance, Isidora. Give my son Welcome. He smiles upon us. [Asidt: Isid. Welcome, my lord ! Guido. Madam, I thank you. Duke. Ha ! Count Casti ! you Are known imto my wife ; is it not so. Casti. Slightly I have been honored. MIRANDOLA. 61 Isid. Welcome, Sir, Unto Mirandola. Tlie Duke and I Are glad to see so kind a countenance here. Duke. Oh ! bravely. I shall teach you soon to know The customs of a court : but, rest you now. — My friends ! I pray ye, sit, and taste your welcome. But how is this ? There should be music here. To greet my son after his battles. — Bid The trumpet speak, and the fine thrilling harp Chime in his ear, 'till every nerve is touched ; And let the flutes (like gentler voices) lend Their pleasant tones, and the rich viols make. With all their strings, harmonious noise to-night. Strike forth, musicians, while the feast proceeds. Chorus, Welcome, welcome from afar; This is thy own festal day. Welcome from the toil of war, Son of great Mirandola. Julio. That was a pleasant strain. Lady. Most pleasant Sir. Duke. Stir not. [Duke and Isidora m^.] O .' fair Camiola, take heed. — You do not wear The ring I gave you, dearest. How was this ^ 62 MIRANDOT.A. hid. The rin