Roble, we must to Rome!
’Tis there one dances.
HIERONYMA.
Gently, kinswoman,
The child is here in safety.
LUCREZIA.
From what foe? In safety?
The child is mine.... He will protect the child.
[Dancing Rodrigo.] Pat, pat—bare toes!
Cristofero, your Prince
Is clad as quaintly as a traveller
In haste, and seeking refuge. Write to Vincent
That he send quickly stuffs and broideries;
Write for the little coat,
Punctured with gold, I wrought him.
HIERONYMA.
Not the gold one;
Our Prince wears mourning.
A Servant enters: he confers apart with Cristofero and goes out.
LUCREZIA.
Babe, what we must wear!
But I shall make your garments, one by one,
Even till you grow a man.
He snatches pearls!
I love their slide about my throat—nay, Roble,
Their touch is silkier than a baby’s thumb.
Fie, little cricket!