The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby - LightNovelsOnl.com
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ROLAND.
Thou speakest parables, Stephano. Out with it, friend: a secret cometh to no good if kept in thy stomach.
STEPHANO.
A fair face; eyes, mouth, and nose, though none of the best;--I think not half so well made as mine own.
ROLAND.
In troth, a dainty lover. What more?
STEPHANO.
But then she gave him such a look of devotion, it would have done thine heart good to have watched the turn of her face, and to have looked at the glistening of her eye,--and yet this platter-faced gallant seemed all unmoved.
ROLAND.
His name knowest thou?
STEPHANO.
Verily, he hath many t.i.tles, and I should be puzzled to suit my respect with his proper quality, should we meet.
ROLAND.
I'll watch to-night;--but pr'ythee whisper me his name gently; I am not quick at solving a riddle.
STEPHANO.
Nay, nay; watch and satisfy thine own prying fancy, as I have mine. If she walks to-night I'll call thee. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_A Chamber in Ridolfi's House._
_HERMIONE, sitting at a Table._
HERMIONE.
Two years agone--this self-same chamber-- Just as 'twas wont;--that ebony casket--still Yon little crucifix hung o'er the mirror,-- That plaited riband, on its flower-carved pillars, I wore in sport for love's fair guerdon; Its chequer'd noose I vow'd to cast on him Who caught me first in some wild reckless game Of wanton mirth; but none, as I remember, The adventure gain'd,--it hangs unclaimed still.
But why this heaviness?--as if some secret, Some long-forgotten grief, waked from its slumber, Roused at the voice of these loud recollections.
Ah! dread dissembler! once I thought thee dead, And thou but slept! Away! haunt not my spirit!
Is it thy form, fell demon? Hence!--thy strength Is nurtured but with present loneliness, And on the wings of some reviving thought Admittance hast thou gain'd to mock me.
[_Knocking without._ Who knocks?--
BLANCH.
'Tis time, lady, you adorn for the guests. The Duke sends word he will attend, and with it his gracious love to Hermione. This billet greets you with his welcome.
HERMIONE.
A billet!--Welcome!--Stay.
Thou shalt attire me in some simple garb, Some una.s.suming robe; its modest hue Unnoticed, I can there observe The humours of this feast.
BLANCH.
Your crimson bodice, lady, becomes you best, and your lilac kerchief with the blue purfle----or do you choose your orange tiffany dress, and your coif and farthingale?
HERMIONE.
Neither, good Blanch. Where is mine old spotted robe, with the silk sleeves and violet-flowered stomacher?
BLANCH.
Lady, what unlucky accident should bethink you of the garment? I fear your memory is but indifferently served. Once, my kind mistress, you gave it to me: and I remember well I said the dress was too gay, when straight you replied, with a sigh (and I do always grieve to hear you sigh, lady), "Take it, good Blanch; I wear it not again:" which I the more marvelled at, being, as you remember, made up for your last visit to Mantua, nor did you inquire for it, after you left this gay city; but methinks none other serves you so well for this same soft-air'd clime. I will away for it speedily, right glad, I trow, the roguish pedler hath not fetched it, who gathers the cast-off dresses from your house. I have not worn the apparel, lady.
HERMIONE.
Thou art a kind-hearted gossip. Choose thee the best suit from my clothes-press, and take it for the exchange.--Nay, good Blanch, I allow not thy gainsay:--it will, peradventure, help thee to a husband.
BLANCH.
I will but keep it then, my sweet mistress, to answer at your bidding; mayhap, you will fancy it on your wedding-day.
HERMIONE.
I shall need no garment then, but the one thy grandmother wore when she scared thy father in the forest.
BLANCH.
Save you, my lady! mean you her winding-sheet?
HERMIONE.
I mean mine own, Blanch; hers being worn out, belike, ere now, with much travel.
BLANCH.
Oh, mercy!--but you are ever at a jest.
HERMIONE.
Nay, girl, my spirits are too heavy.
BLANCH.
What mean you, fair mistress? I do fear me a few hours of this Mantuan air have wrought untowardly with you. Are you ill, lady?
HERMIONE.
No, girl.
BLANCH.
It is a secret that disturbs you?
HERMIONE.
Thou canst sing, Blanch?--
BLANCH.
Ay, sweet lady, that can I,--and your favourite carol too. List.
[_Sings._ "The miller was blithe in the red, red morn.
And he sung ere the lark left her nest; His heart was bright as the gold, gold light That comes o'er the dappled east."
HERMIONE.
Nay, that sorts not with my humour, Blanch.
BLANCH.
Shall I try the merry troll you were always right glad to hear, which the old steward taught us?
"Roundabout, roundabout, laugh and glee So merry, so merry--"
