Celso. Boy, thy master? where’s the duke?
Page. Alas, I left him burying the earth with his spread joyless limbs: he told me he was heavy, would sleep; bade[489] me walk off, for that the strength of fantasy oft made him talk[490] in his dreams. I straight obeyed, nor ever[491] saw him since: but wheresoe’er he is, he’s sad.
Aur. Music, sound high, as is our heart! sound high!
Enter Malevole, and Pietro disguised like an hermit.
Mal. The duke,—peace!—the duke is dead.
Aur. Music!
Mal. Is’t music? 100
Men. Give proof.
Fer. How?
Celso. Where?