UGOLINO.
9
To-morrow, after vespers in the church
Of the miracoli.
Count. Julio! They shall meet;
But how—how, Julio? not with kindling cheeks,
And throbbing hearts—not in the gaudy garb,
By bride and bridegroom worn—The fest'ring shroud
Shall be their wedding garment, the dark grave,
Their marriage bed. The worm their only guest
Hark, thee, good Julio! Dost thou love thy master?
Ang. Has Julio liv'd to hear thee doubt his love?
Count. Forgive me, Julio—but it seems a riddle,
That thou should'st love me, whilst the sun of fortune
Pour'd its full beams upon me, was not wond'rous,
Then I was Ugolino, thy rich master;
Happy myself, the cause of joy in others;
But now that ray has set, and the false herd,
That doff'd the hat, and bent the supple knee,
Pass me, as summer winds the blighted oak,
Amidst whose branches, when with foliage clad,
They sung and revell'd thro the sunny day!
That thou should'st love me still, appears so strange,
So much unlike the practice of the world—
Away! away, boy! seek some wealthier lord,
I cannot pay thee for thy service now. [Crosses to r.
Ang. O, my good lord, drive not poor Julio from thee,
I ask no payment, let me follow still
Thy fortunes, still be near thee, watch thine eyes,
And from them learn thy will ere it be spoken.
Count. Ha! learn it from mine eyes—observe them now,
Canst read my will, boy? Julio! would thou couldst,
'Twould save my lips a labor which they loath.
Ang. O, they look terrible! I know not what
May be their import; but they make one shudder!
Count. He!—He comes here to-night—I cannot name him.
Were I to utter his detested title,
My tongue would blister with't—He—to these walls,
These mirth resounding bow'rs laughing comes—
Take this, good Julio, [gives him a purse.] hasten and provide
Thyself with some disguise—that done, return,
Bearing thy lute with thee to this gay scene,
And mingle with the Maskers—watch his steps,
And should he leave the crowd, attract his notice,
With some like lay, or sibyl like expression.
Lure him with hints of meeting with his love,
Or any specious tale thy wit may frame,
To the Rialto's foot—He shall not need
A guide on his return.
Ang. Thou wilt not murder him?
Count. My hate's athirst, his blood alone can slake it!
Wilt do my bidding?
Of the miracoli.
Count. Julio! They shall meet;
But how—how, Julio? not with kindling cheeks,
And throbbing hearts—not in the gaudy garb,
By bride and bridegroom worn—The fest'ring shroud
Shall be their wedding garment, the dark grave,
Their marriage bed. The worm their only guest
Hark, thee, good Julio! Dost thou love thy master?
Ang. Has Julio liv'd to hear thee doubt his love?
Count. Forgive me, Julio—but it seems a riddle,
That thou should'st love me, whilst the sun of fortune
Pour'd its full beams upon me, was not wond'rous,
Then I was Ugolino, thy rich master;
Happy myself, the cause of joy in others;
But now that ray has set, and the false herd,
That doff'd the hat, and bent the supple knee,
Pass me, as summer winds the blighted oak,
Amidst whose branches, when with foliage clad,
They sung and revell'd thro the sunny day!
That thou should'st love me still, appears so strange,
So much unlike the practice of the world—
Away! away, boy! seek some wealthier lord,
I cannot pay thee for thy service now. [Crosses to r.
Ang. O, my good lord, drive not poor Julio from thee,
I ask no payment, let me follow still
Thy fortunes, still be near thee, watch thine eyes,
And from them learn thy will ere it be spoken.
Count. Ha! learn it from mine eyes—observe them now,
Canst read my will, boy? Julio! would thou couldst,
'Twould save my lips a labor which they loath.
Ang. O, they look terrible! I know not what
May be their import; but they make one shudder!
Count. He!—He comes here to-night—I cannot name him.
Were I to utter his detested title,
My tongue would blister with't—He—to these walls,
These mirth resounding bow'rs laughing comes—
Take this, good Julio, [gives him a purse.] hasten and provide
Thyself with some disguise—that done, return,
Bearing thy lute with thee to this gay scene,
And mingle with the Maskers—watch his steps,
And should he leave the crowd, attract his notice,
With some like lay, or sibyl like expression.
Lure him with hints of meeting with his love,
Or any specious tale thy wit may frame,
To the Rialto's foot—He shall not need
A guide on his return.
Ang. Thou wilt not murder him?
Count. My hate's athirst, his blood alone can slake it!
Wilt do my bidding?
