_The Palace at Ferrara._
_The_ DUCHESS LUCREZIA BORGIA D’ESTE, _dressed in mourning, in a
small room. She is feeding birds._
LUCREZIA.
My doves,
My little, gladsome ones.... Rodrigo!...
My little Roman dove, my young, a softness
Still to my bosom....
And this father--
His love to me, and all the streams of pearls!
They have not honourably buried him;
They are not sorry. [_She weeps._
I have prayed so long:
I have been angry. In my dreams I prayed;
And then he broke it, for he came to me,
His lips bulged out for kisses: “Dance, Lucrece,
Dance to me, child; it is that grace prevails!”
[_After a pause--to the doves._
There, there! Fly out! There! Flutter on my shoulder,
And let me catch you.
Father, do you mark,
I am not weeping?--See, how they all settle
About me, on my head, and on my bosom--
See, how I rise and flutter them!
[_She rises and the doves disperse from her in troops._
How lightsome
They come back to their roost! Dear Blessèdness,
And this will give you peace....
[_Suddenly she bows her golden head; the doves flutter down on it
in a halo._