The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
_Politian_. This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
_Enter Baldazzar_.
_Baldazzar_. That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.
_Pol_. _What_ didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
_Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.
_Pol_. It is most true--
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
_Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you:
The Count Castiglione will not fight.
Having no cause for quarrel.
_Pol_. Now this is true--
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.
_Bal_. My lord!--my friend!--
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
(_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
_Bal_. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?--at the Vatican.
_Pol_. At the Vatican.
(_Exit Bal_.)
_Enter Castiglione_.
_Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here!
_Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not, that I am here?
_Cas_. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
_Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
_Cas_. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl!
(_Draws._)
_Pol_.
(_drawing_.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage_.)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
_Pol_. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
_Cas_. I dare not--dare not--
Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
I cannot--dare not.
_Pol_. Now, by my halidom,
I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
_Cas_. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
the Earl._)
Alas! my lord,
It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
_Pol.
(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
_Cas_. And Lalage--
_Pol_. _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
_Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
(_baring his bosom_.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
_Pol_. Now's Death and Hell!
Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets--before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
thee,
Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
(_Exit_.)
_Cas_. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
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