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ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Cas

tiglione.

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, noth-
ing, 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 haud 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 Alessan

dra.)

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 gray in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy,--
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wed-
ding.

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.
Learned as few are learned.

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.)

II.

ROME. A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.

Lalage. Jacinta! is it thou?

Jacinta (pertly). Yes, ma'am; I'm here. Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.

Sit down, let not my presence trouble you:
Sit down, for I am humble, most humble.

Jac. (aside). 'Tis time.

(Jacinta seats herself in a sidelong manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read.)

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Lal. It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!" over some leaves and

66

(Pauses,-turns

resumes.)

No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower;

But Ocean, ever to refresh mankind,

Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind."
Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
Oh, happy land! (pauses.) She died!-the

maiden died!

Oh, still more happy maiden, who couldst die! Jacinta!

Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)

Again!-a similar tale

Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand, in the words of

the play:

“She died full young!" One Bossola answers him

"I think not so: her infelicity

Seemed to have years too many." Ah, luckless

lady!

Jacinta ! (Still no answer.)

Here's a far sterner story:

But like-oh, very like in its despair—
To that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts,-losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history and her

maids

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