O'er boiling skellets, crucibles and stills,
Drugs and elixirs.
Ay, chide on, my love; The nightingale's complaining is more sweet, Than half the dull unvarying birds that pipe Perpetual amorous joy. - Tell me, Bianca, How long is 't since we wedded.
With tatter'd remnants of a money-bag,
Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his face,
Like some dry wither-boned anatomy,
Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily
Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels,
Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold,
Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily,
As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard,
And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel.
Wouldst thou know His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them,
As a gross Satyr on a sleeping Nymph;
And then, as he heard something like a sound,
He clapp'd the lid to, and blew out the lantern.
But I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms,
Thy right and title to thy weariness? —
Beyond two years.
Days, days, Bianca! Love
Hath in its calendar no tedious time,
So long as what cold lifeless souls call years.
Oh, with my books, my sage philosophy,
My infants, and their mother, time slides on
So smoothly, as 't were fall'n asleep, forgetting
Its heaven-ordained motion. We are poor;
But in the wealth of love, in that, Bianca,
In that we are eastern sultans. I have thought
If that my wondrous alchymy should win
That precious liquor, whose transmuting dew
Makes the black iron start forth brilliant gold,
Were it not wise to cast it back again
Into its native darkness?
That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stain'd
With watching his own gold; every one knows him,
Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he,
Nor kindred nor familiar; not a slave,
Not a lean serving wench: nothing e'er enter'd
But his spare self within his jealous doors,
Except a wand'ring rat; and that, they say,
And thank'd my God that I had braver riches.
Oh then, let that black furnace burst: dash down
Those ugly and misshapen jars and vials.
Nay, nay, most sage philosopher, to-night,
At least to-night, be only thy Bianca's.
FAZIO (looking fondly at her.)
Why, e'en the Prince of Bards was false and slan-
derous,
Who girt Jove's bride in that voluptuons zone,
Ere she could win her weary lord to love;
While my earth-born Bianca bears by nature
An ever-blooming cæstus of delight!
So courtly and so fanciful, my Fazio!
Which of our dukes hath lent thee his cast poesies!
Why, such a musical and learned phrase
Had soften'd the marchesa, Aldabella,
That high signora, that once pamper'd thee
Almost to madness with her rosy smiles;
And then my lady queen put on her winter,
And froze thee till thou wert a very icicle,
Had not the lowly and despised Bianca
Shone on it with the summer of her pity.
Nay, taunt not her, Bianca, taunt not her!
Thy Fazio loved her once. Who, who would blame
Heaven's moon, because a maniac hath adored it,
And died in his dotage? E'en a saint might wear
Proud Aldabella's scorn, nor look less heavenly.
Was famine-struck, and died there. What of him? Oh, it dropt balm upon the wounds it gave;
Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones.
There's not a galliot on the sea, but bears
A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre,
Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes,
But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he,
He only stocks our prisons with his debtors.
I saw him creeping home last night; he shudder'd
As he unlock'd his door, and look'd around,
As if he thought that every breath of wind
Were some keen thief; and when he lock'd him in,
I heard the grating key turn twenty times,
To try if all were safe. I look'd again
From our high window by mere chance, and saw
The motion of his scanty moping lantern;
And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuff'd
The soul was pleased to be so sweetly wrong'd,
And misery grew rapturous. Aldabella!
The gracious! the melodious! Oh, the words
Laugh'd on her lips; the motion of her smiles
Shower'd beauty, as the air-caressed spray
The dews of morning; and her stately steps
Were light as though a winged angel trod
Over earth's flowers, and fear'd to brush away
Their delicate hues; ay, e'en her very robes
Were animate and breathing, as they felt
The presence of her loveliness, spread around
Their thin and gauzy clouds, ministering freely
Officious duty on the shrine where Nature
Hath lavish'd all her skill.
She wanton!- Aldabella loose! - Then, then
Are the pure lilies black as soot within,
The stainless virgin snow is hot and rancid,
And chastity-ay, it may be in heaven,
But all beneath the moon is wild and haggard.
If she be spotted, oh, unholiness
Hath never been so delicately lodged
Since that bad devil walk'd fair Paradise.
BIANCA.
Already silent? Hath your idol quaff'd
Enough of your soft incense? Fazio! Fazio!
But that her gaudy bark would aye disdain
The quiet stream whereon we glide so smooth,
I should be fearful of ye.
Ungenerous Bianca! who foregoes, For the gay revel of a golden harp,
Its ecstasies and rich enchanting falls,
His own domestic lute's familiar pleasing?
But thou, thou vain and wanton in thy power,
Thou know'st canst make e'en jealousy look lovely,
And all thy punishment for that bad passion
Be this-[Kisses her]-Good night!-I will but
snatch a look
How the great crucible doth its slow work,
And be with thee; unless thou fanciest, sweet,
That Aldabella lurks behind the furnace;
And then, heaven knows how long I may be truant.
[Exit BIANCA.
Oh, what a star of the first magnitude
Were poor young Fazio, if his skill should work
The wondrous secret your deep-closeted sages
Grow grey in dreaming of! Why all our Florence
Would be too narrow for his branching glories;
It would o'erleap the Alps, and all the north
Troop here to see the great philosopher.
He would be wealthy too wealthy in fame;
And that's more golden than the richest gold.
[A groan without.
Holy St. Francis! what a groan was there!
Voice without.
Within there!-Oh! within there, neighbour!-Death,
Murder, and merciless robbery!
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A confessor! one of your black smooth talkers,
That drone the name of God incessantly,
Like the drear burthen of a doleful ballad!
That sing to one of bounteous codicils
To the Franciscans or some hospital!
Oh! there's a shooting! - Oozing here! - Ah me!
My ducats and my ingots scarcely cold
From the hot Indies!-Oh! and I forgot
To seal those jewels from the Milan Duke!
Oh! misery, misery! Just this very day,
And that mad spendthrift Angelo hath not sign'd
The mortgage on those meadows by the Arno.
Oh! misery, misery!- Yet I 'scaped them bravely,
And brought my ducats off!
[Dies
Why e'en lie there, as foul a mass of earth
As ever loaded it. "T were sin to charity
To wring one drop of brine upon thy corpse.
In sooth, Death 's not nice-stomach'd, to be cramm'd
With such unsavoury offal. What a god
'Mong men might this dead wither'd thing have been,
That now must rot beneath the earth, as once
He rotted on it! Why his wealth had won
In better hands an atmosphere around him,
Musical ever with the voice of blessing,
Nations around his tomb, like marble mourners,
Vied for their pedestals. In better hands?
Methinks these fingers are not coarse nor clumsy.
Philosophy, Philosophy! thou 'rt lame
And tortoise-paced to my fleet desires?
I scent a shorter path to fame and riches.
The Hesperian trees nod their rich clusters at me,
Tickling my timorous and withdrawing grasp;—
I would, yet dare not:-that's a coward's reckoning
Half of the sin lies in "I would." To-morrow,
If that it find me poor, will write me fool,
And myself be a mock unto myself.
Ay, and the body murder'd in my house!
Your carrion breeds most strange and loathsome in
Suspicion 's of the quickest and the keenest—
So, neighbour, by your leave, your keys! In sooth,
Thou hadst no desperate love for holy church;
Long-knolled bell were no sweet music to thee.
A "God be with thee" shall be all thy mass;
Thou never lovedst those dry and droning priests,
Thou It rot most cool and quiet in my garden; Your gay and gilded vault would be too costly. [Exit with the body of Bartolo.
And socketless pale eyes look glaring on me.
But I have past them: and methinks this weight
Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own.
Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe! Thank God!-for
what?
That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain.
Enter FAZIO, with a dark Lantern.
I, wont to rove like a tame household dog,
Caress d by every hand, and fearing none,
Now prowl e'en like a grey and treasonous wolf.
"T is a bad deed to rob, and I'll have none on 't :
"Tis a bad deed to rob — and whom? the dead!
Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails.
"T is but a quit-rent for the land I sold him,
Almost two yards to house him and his worms:
Somewhat usurious in the main, but that
Is honest thrift to your keen usurer.
Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 't were devilish.
But now whom rob I? why the state-In sooth
Marvellous little owe I this same state,
That I should be so dainty of its welfare.
Methinks our Duke hath pomp enough, our Senate
Sit in their scarlet robes and ermine tippets,
And live in proud and pillar'd palaces,
Where their Greek wines flow plentiful- Besides,
To scatter it abroad amid so many,
It were to cut the sun out into spangles,
And mar its brilliance by dispersing it.
Away! away! his burying is my Rubicon!
Cæsar or nothing! Now, ye close-lock'd treasures,
Put on your gaudiest hues, outshine yourselves!
With a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand
Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers
And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not
Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness,
But front the sun with light bright as his own.
The Street near Fazio's Door. Re-enter FAZ10 with a sack: he rests it. My steps were ever to this door, as though They trod on beds of perfume and of down. The winged birds were not by half so light, When through the lazy twilight air they wheel Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. I move as every separate limb were gyved With its particular weight of manacle. The moonlight that was wont to seem so soft, So balmy to the slow respired breath, Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. The marble pillars, that soared stately up, As though to prop the azure vault of heaven, Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak, Forbidding echoes, ay with human voices. Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass,
Flatterer! Nay, the word's grown gross.
An apt discourser upon things of honour,
Professor of art Panegyrical.
"T were ill were I a hawk to see such bravery,
And not a thrush to sing of it. Wealth, sir,
Wealth is the robe and outward garb of man;
The setting to the rarer jewelry,
The soul's unseen and inner qualities.
And then, my lord, philosophy! 'tis that,
The stamp and impress of our divine nature,
By which we know that we are Gods, and are so.
But wealth and wisdom in one spacious breast!
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My lord, thou hast before thee in thy presence
The mirror of the court, the very calendar
That rules the swift revolving round of fashion;
Doth tell what hues do suit what height o' the sun;
When your spring pinks should banish from the court
Your sober winter browns; when July heat
Doth authorize the gay and flaunting yellows; -
The court thermometer, that doth command
Your three-piled velvet abdicate its state
For the airy satins. Oh, my lord, you are too late,
At least three days, with your Venetian tissue.
I sorrow, sir, to merit your rebuke On point so weighty.
Ay, signior, I'm paramount In all affairs of boot, and spur, and hose; In matters of the robe and cap supreme; In ruff disputes, my lord, there's no appeal From my irrefragibility.
I fear me, such despotic rule and sway
Over the persons of our citizens
Must be of danger to our state of Florence.
Good sooth, my lord, I am a very tyrant.
Why, if a senator should presume to wear
A cloak of fur in June, I should indict him
Guilty of leze-majesté against my kingship:
They call me Dandolo, the King of Fashions-
The whole empire of dress is my dominion.
Why, if our Duke should wear an ill-grain'd colour
Against my positive enactment, though
His state might shield him from the palpable shame
Of a rebuke, yet, my good lord, opinion,
Public opinion, would hold Signior Dandolo
Merciful in his silence.
Good, my lord! dignity must be upheld
On the strong pillars of severity.
Your cap, my lord, a little to the north-east,
No, signior, no; I'm not one of the gallants
That pine for a fair lip, or eye, or cheek,
Or that poetical treasure, a true heart.
But, my lord, a fair-order'd head-dress makes me
As love-sick as a dove at mating-time:
A tasteful slipper is my soul's delight.
Oh, I adore a robe that drops and floats
As it were lighter than the air around it;
I dote upon a stomacher to distraction,
When the gay jewels, gracefully disposed,
Make it a zone of stars: and then a fan,
The elegant motion of a fan, is murder,
Positive murder to my poor weak senses.
FAZIO (turning to PHILARIO.)
But here's a third: the Improvisatore,
Gentle Philario, lurks, methinks, behind.
Most noble lord! it were his loftiest boast
To wed your honours to his harp. To hymn
The finder of the philosophic stone,
The sovereign prince of alchymists; 't would make
The cold verse-mechanist, the nice balancer
Of curious words and fair compacted phrases,
Burst to a liquid and melodious flow,
Rapturous and ravishing but in praise of thee!
But I, my lord, that have the fluent vein,
The rapid rush
Fie, sir! O fie! 't is fulsome.
Sir, there's a soil fit for that rank weed flattery
To trail its poisonous and obscure clusters:
A poet's soul should bear a richer fruitage-
The aconite grew not in Eden. Thou,
That thou, with lips tipt with the fire of heaven,
Th' excursive eye, that in its earth-wide range
Drinks in the grandeur and the loveliness
That breathes along this high-wrought world of man;
Thou hast within thee apprehensions strong
Of all that's pure and passionless and heavenly—
That thou, a vapid and a mawkish parasite,
Shouldst pipe to that witch Fortune's favourites!
"T is coarse-'t is sickly—'t is as though the eagle
Should spread his sail-broad wings to flap a dunghill;
As though a pale and withering pestilence
Should ride the golden chariot of the sun;
As one should use the language of the gods
To chatter loose and ribald brothelry.
My lord, I thank thee for that noble chiding
Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy,
That it must trim its fetterless free plumes
To the gross fancies of the humoursome age;
That it must stoop from its bold heights to court
Liquorish opinion, whose aye-wavering breath
Is to it as the precious air of life.
Oh, in a capering, chambering, wanton land,
The lozel's song alone gains audience,
Fine loving ditues, sweet to sickliness;
The languishing and luscious touch alone,
Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain
The pall'd and pamper'd ear of Italy.
But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries
For the initiate Hark!-it bursts!-it flows!
Song by PHILARIO.
Rich and royal Italy!
Dominion's lofty bride!
Earth deem'd no loss of pride
To be enslaved by thee.
From broad Euphrates' bank,
When the sun look'd through the gloom
Thy eagle's golden plume
His orient, splendour drank;
And when at eve he set
Far in the chamber'd west,
That bird of brilliance yet
Bathed in his gorgeous rest.
Sad and sunken Italy!
The plunderer's common prey!
When saw the eye of day
So very a slave as thee?
Long, long a bloody stage`
For petty kinglings tame,
Their miserable game
Of puny war to wage.
Or from the northern star
Come haughty despots down,
With iron hand to share
Thy bruised and broken crown.
Fair and fervid Italy!
Lady of each gentler art,
Yet couldst thou lead the heart In mild captivity.
Warm Raphael's Virgin sprung
To worship and to love,
The enamour'd air above
Rich clouds of music hung,
Thy poets bold and free
Did noble wrong to time,
In their high rhymed majesty
Ravishing thy clime.
Loose and languid Italy!
Where now the magic pow'r That in thy doleful hour Made a queen of thee?
The pencil cold and dead, Whose lightest touch was life; The old immortal strife
Of thy high poets fled.
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