ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.
_Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_Castiglione_. Sad!--not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome,
A few days more thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_Alless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness!--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas_. Did I sigh?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly--a most silly fashion I have
When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing_.)
_Aless_. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas_. (_musing_.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--not ev'n deep
sorrow--
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
_Aless_. Do it. I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company too--fellows low born!
Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.
_Cas_. I will drop them.
_Aless_. Thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
Upon appearances.
_Cas_. I'll see to it.
_Aless_. Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
In dignity.
_Cas_. Much, much, oh much I want
In proper dignity.
_Aless_. (_haughtily_.) Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cas_. (_abstractedly_.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_Aless_. Heard I aright?
I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage!
Sir Count! (_places her hand on his shoulder_) what art thou
dreaming? he's not well!
What ails thee, sir?
_Cas_. (_starting_.) Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
_Enter Di Broglio_.
_Di Broglio_. My son, I've news for thee!--hey?--what's the matter?
(_observing Alessandra_.)
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up I say this minute!
I've news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.
_Aless_. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_Di Brog_. The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
_Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile, and giddy--is he not?
And little given to thinking.
_Di Brog_. Far from it love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it,
Learned as few are learned.
_Aless_. 'Tis very strange,
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life, {107}
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
_Cas_. Ridiculous! Now, _I_ have seen Politian
And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer and a man shut out
From common passions.
_Di Brog_. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a _melancholy_ man? (_exeunt_.)