Roselo. Anselmo, here I with due caution move,
And use most sound discretion.
Anselmo. Show me the man who, loving,
Knows or holds discretion worth a thought.
Roselo. I walk but seldom in the street,
And rarely go to mass.
Anselmo. How then see thy wife?
Roselo. Often and without danger too.
Anselmo. How?
Roselo. In the soft silence of the dreamy night,
Beneath the orange tree that shades
Her lattice; and by the cedars dark, I place
A corded ladder strong; Celia doth wait
While we sweet converse hold.
When day shakes loose her golden locks,
I bid adieu, and by the cords descend,
Where Marin on the watch doth join me;
And, as the sunlight flashes o'er the hills,
I seek my bed and dream.
Anselmo. In this, then, dost no hazard see?
Roselo. No, for 'tis done when all Verona sleeps.
Anselmo. Otavio will awake.
Roselo. Otavio loves her, that I know;
Yet doth her wit delude with outward show.
Anselmo. But how?
Roselo. Beneath the orchard's walls, from eventide
Till midnight, she speaks and walks with him;
He then doth bid farewell, and homeward goes
To dream until the morrow sunlight knows.
Anselmo. And this is loving woman's wit!
Hast thou no jealous fear his words
May not be such thy wife should hear?
