CHARLES: Speak then.
CECCO: Have you not marked him sundry of his moods?
CHARLES: Well?
CECCO: On his back in the wood as if the leaves
Sung fairy balladry; then riding wild
Nowhither and alone; about the castle
Yearning, yet absent to soft speech and arms!
He'll drink, sir, and not know if it be wine!
CHARLES: So is he! but to-day he bold unsheathed
His skill and bravery.
CECCO: And did not crave
A boon of you?
CHARLES: None. But you put not ill
My thought to it. His aspiration flags----
CECCO: Ah, flags.
CHARLES: New wings it needs and buoyancy.
My trust in him is ripe: the fruit of it,
He shall be lord of Arta--total lord.
CECCO: He begged no softer boon?
CHARLES: Cunning! again?
Sleek questions of a sleeker consequence?
CECCO: It was, sir, only of Antonio.
CHARLES: Worm, you began so. Stretch now to the end,
Or--will you?
CECCO: I would say--would ask--and hope
There is no thorny hint in it to vex you,
To prick your humor--may not he be sick,
Amorous, mellow sick upon some maid?
CHARLES: Have you so labored to this atom's birth?
Is a boy's passion so new under the moon
You gape at it?