Enter the Duke and Ridolfi.
ridolfi.
Hermione again visits my house.—
Your presence, good my lord, with your fair dame,
I would solicit.
duke.
Well, Ridolfi, be it so:—to-day,
If nought forbid the time:—Hermione,
Thou say'st?—I do remember, yet so slight, 'tis scarce
The shadow of her form. But once, my brother,
'Twas one fair summer's eve, awhile I saw
Thy sprightly coz: a laughter-loving spirit,
She threw quick mirth as the unbidden shafts
Of innocent love, scattering with hand profuse
Her joyous pranks. I was but newly wedded,
Scarce past the honey-moon; Beatrice hung
Fondly upon mine arm, and we too laugh'd,
On that still night, until the whisp'ring woods
Grew loud, and thousand voices started forth
From bough and hoary stem, bursting as if
To riotous life; and yet her giddy face,
Playful and changing as the restless wave,
I cannot fashion now from memory's storehouse—
How fares thy cousin?
ridolfi.
Still by love, my lord,
She comes untamed; but time, one delicate shade
Hath slightly pass'd upon her wanton mirth,
Softening the ruder bursts of her high spirit,
Tinged ofttime now with gentler thought.
duke.
'Tis well
When ripening years mellow the gaudy hue
Of youth's rich fancies, sparkling else too bright
For its repose.——We visit thee to-day.—
This tribute say we give Hermione.
ridolfi.
Much honour hold we from your presence:
Our poorer hospitality excuse,
As you are wont. Adieu! No costly feast
We give, but our glad welcome. [Exit.
duke.
A brother still,—a friend
To cheer my way through life's dark wilderness.
Thou art a feeble light, and yet I love
To watch thy tremulous blaze, blessing the gloom,
And shedding round my path its thousand gems,
Sprinkling perchance some loathed and hideous form
With thy pale gleam. How tender hast thou been
To my worst weaknesses, my foibles, all
Heart-withering cares! Though born to humbler honours,
I call thee friend. Well hast thou earn'd from me
That sacred name! One bosom nourish'd us:
One hand our childhood rear'd; twining we grew
Unto one stem, till riches and high birth
Bore me brief space from that beloved soil,—
That home, to which our very nature yet
Seems most akin.——
Of proud descent, unsullied as mine own,
Thou yet canst boast: if not of titled wealth,
Of outward garb, thy suit becomes thee well;
And I do love thee more than if array'd
In ducal coronet. Beatrice too
Hath prized him for my sake, and her esteem
I do repay with tenfold love.——
Fierce, feverish love!—thine idle dreams,—fleeting
As cloud-fed vapour, yon o'erarching bow
Bestrides,—fade as the sunbeam on the sky
Dispels the glowing mist. 'Tis well, if then
The welkin clear'd, each circumstance and form,—
Fashion'd realities by truth impress'd
Upon the craving eye-balls,—O 'tis well
If on these fix'd and palpable images
Of roused and wakening sense, the eye may rest
With unappeased delight! But if the while
Love's light-wing'd visions fade, nought fills the void
Save chilling wastes, trackless, unlimited,
That echo back their own grim desolation
To the appalled spirit. What escape
The shrinking soul is left, save one dark path
To unappointed death? I thank thee, Heaven,
Thou sparest me this trial! Love hath still
With proud esteem held equal sway: in peace,
Untroubled they divide their several empire.——
But I must hence; Beatrice I would greet
First with these tidings of Hermione. [Exit.
SCENE II.
A Hall in the House of Ridolfi.