[Illustration]
I
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!
_Aless._ 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 even 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 wilt—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 rumour 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.
Learnèd as few are learnèd.
_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,
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._)