duke.
Not yet!
I would, ere night, this mumming witch were found.
Without the walls perchance she lurks. Command
Their search unto the outskirts: large reward
Will follow their success. [Exit Sylvio.
duchess.
At this inviting hour, we taste
The fragrance from our incense-breathing flowers:
My lord, attend you us?
The roses are fresh sprinkled,—the soft breeze
Comes heavily from their odour-blushing heads,
Faint and oppress'd with its delicious burden.
duke.
My spouse hath set her love on some tall poppy,
Some velvet-cheek'd, young tulip; drinking nectar
From his soft, balmy lip. I must be jealous
Of these same gentle favours.
duchess.
You shall attend
Our fragrant courtship—the unwitting pander
To my stolen pleasures. Ah, my lord! what mean you?
Comes that dark frown to me, or to my lovers?
duke.
Nothing, Beatrice,—a passing jest,—'tis gone,—
I needs must frown when I am jealous. Now,
Fair dames, I would attend you. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Wood.
Zorayda, sitting at the foot of an oak.
zorayda.
An outcast from an outcast race,—spurn'd, chid,
From the churl's threshold. Shunn'd, unbless'd by all:
Nor home nor heritance—I live, alone,
Without associate, tie, or fellowship
E'en to my kin. I might from these consist
Of other nature; other substance might
Enfold my spirit,—other shape
Envelope me, than wraps the affrighted herd
Who stand aloof and gaze! Th' inanimate forms,
Nature's unchisel'd workmanship—unsullied
By man's rude contact—'tis with these I hold
Converse and high communion;
And from the spirit that lives in them, free
And uncommunicable intercourse
My soul receives. In all things there exists
Distinct peculiar essence, like the soul
Our being animates; at seasons oft,
In presence, though unseen, yet to the mind
Internal, manifest, imparting there
Miraculous influence. In secret, too—
The bodily eye, from grosser matter freed,—
In shape as palpable they come, as doth
Each outward image rise to corporeal sense.
I am not mad. The heated brain creates not
These uncall'd phantoms: yet men say I'm crazed.
They know not, dream not, of the mighty world
That lives around them. Other orbs might hold us!
—By mine art, with potent spell,
And wily stratagem, the Duke I've warn'd.
Hermione—proud victim! Love unhallow'd
Yet lingers in their breasts, and they must sever,
Though one heart break in that most cruel parting!
There's a foul taint of murder in the wind—
I do suspect her lover—yon Venetian,
Her suitor once—rejected. Such revenge
Will ofttimes rouse the spirit up to mischief,
Loathing, it would abhor e'en if beheld
But as a guilty dream. If this fond Duke
Seek not again her presence I have hope.
To-morrow she departs from Mantua—
No power can harm thee, save in that brief space
Appointed with thy birth. Here comes my spy:
The urchin loves me for the good he owes.
Enter Giulio.