IPPOLITO DI ESTE.* Ippolito. Now all the people follow the procession Surely no air is stirring; every step Tires me; the columns shake, the ceiling fleets, Stay! here she stept: what grace! what harmony! Of all the choral music, breath'd from her: : I could have fancied purer light descended. ΙΟ 20 * Ferrante and Giulio were brothers, by the father's side, to the Duke Alfonso and the Cardinal Ippolito di Este. The cardinal deprived Ferrante of his eyes for loving the same object as his Eminence, and because she had praised the beauty of them. Rosalba (entering). What! I called him? in my haste To languish at his beauty, to weigh down His eyelids with my lips for gazing on me: Surely I spoke the name, and knew it not Until it bounded back and smote me so! Ippolito. Curses upon them both! Welcome, sweet lady! 30 [Advancing toward her. Rosalba. Lord Cardinal! you here? and unattended? Ferrante writes Ferrante plain enough; I am grown steadier, and could write Rosalba. For what bride? 40 Ippolito. Sport not with one your charms have cast too low. Sport not with one your hand would raise too Rosalba. high. Ippolito. Again that taunt! the time may come, Rosalba, When I could sanctify the blissful state I have aspired to. Rosalba. Am not I mere ice? Show not I girlish forwardness, the fears 50 hate them? you Have not you said so ? and said more Inconstancy in him. I know Rosalba. And what in me? Ippolito. No? Rosalba. Call it thus, and cast it on the rest. Ippolito. Some are there whose close vision sees but one In the whole world, and would not see another For the whole world, were that one out of it. Rosalba. Are there some such? O may they be my friends! O how, before I know them, I do love them! Have not your tears been seen, when you have left him, 70 Rosalba. Such grief is yet unknown to me. How high, I know O Heaven! must that man be, who loves, and who To interest his beloved! All my soul Is but one drop from his, and into his Ippolito. Yet would it not be wise to trust a friend Rosalba. Is it not wise in darkness and in storm To trust the wave that lashes us, and pray Is ship and pilot to me, sea and star : Counsel from others, knowing him, would be Than profanation and apostacy. 80 90 Ippolito. We may retire; he comes not here to-day. 100 Rosalba. Then will I not retire, but lay my head Upon the feet of any pitying saint Until he comes, altho' it be to-morrow. Ippolito. To-morrow he may fail: the sovran will By rescript has detained and must delay him. Rosalba. Lead, lead me to Ferrante. Ippolito. Were I worthy. Rosalba. Proud cruel man! that bitter sneer bodes ill. May not I see him? Ippolito. He may not see you. Rosalba. O let him! well my memory can supply His beauteous image; I can live on love Saturate, like bees with honey, long drear days; He must see me, or cannot rest; I can. ΠΙΟ SECOND PART. IPPOLITO, FERRANTE, and GIULIO, in prison. Ippolito. Reasons of state, I fear, have dictated This something like severity; God grant Here be no heresy: do both avow it, Staring in silence at discovery? Giulio. No order forced me hither; I am come To share my brother's fate, whate'er it be, And mitigate his sufferings. Ippolito. May they cease! Giulio. Those words would have dissolved them into air, Spoken but twenty furlongs from these bars. Ippolito. I would do much to serve you; but my faith Ferrante. Thy hatred and its cause. My father's son, they say? Ferrante. God. He well knows Why should I hate They say! His blood Runs in these veins, for pure, pure ΙΟ hers 20 30 40 Who loved the youthful lover, and who died All men do when age. Bends down their heads, or gold shines in their way. You call'd me tyrant. Ferrante. Calléd thee tyrant? I? By Heaven! in tyrant there is something great Rather by any monster of the wild Than choakt by weeds and quicksands, rather crusht Those who act well the tyrant, neither seek Warrants for death: the gibbet and the wheel, genius The lanes and allies echo with thy works. ! Giulio. Ah! do not urge him; he may ruin you; He may pursue you to the grave. Ferrante. He dares not : Look at his collar! see the saint he wears! The amber saint may ask too much for that. Ippolito. Atheist! thy scoffs encourage every crime, And strip thee, like a pestilence, of friends: Theirs is the guilt to march against the law, They mount the scaffold, and the blow is thine. Ferrante. How venom burnishes his adder's crest, 50 60 |