_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Wring her fair hand; and if withdrawn,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._