SCENE II.
A Street.—Enter Vincentio and Leonardo, with other citizens.
Vincentio.
Talk not of patience here! On every pleasure
Some spy doth watch, in mirth’s unguarded hour
To seize stray thoughts which haply may transgress
The straitened bounds of prudence.
Leonardo.
Hush! you tread
Close on its limits now. The mighty ones
Are like the gods, invisible and present.
Vincentio.
Aye, like the gods too, that their cunning visits
Their destined victims with a wholesome madness!
By Heaven! I’d rather grapple with the Hun,
Or serve the turbaned Turk, than linger life out
In such concealed bondage! ’Twas but now,
Even at the masque, I saw the peering eyes
Of that dark villain, Steno, fixed upon me.
I’ve marked him oft—he serves the state in secret!
Mine arm ached for the dagger, as I watched
His lowering face.
Leonardo.
Are you alone in fear?
Our Senators——
Vincentio.
Are tigers clothed in robes.
Leonardo.
Not all. Yet when the voice of mirth is heard,
If they appear, in terror steals away
Each startled reveller, and all around
Is silent as the grave—
Vincentio.
To which they doom
The luckless murmurers.
Leonardo.
Hush! some one approaches.
The Signor Loredano, and another.
In converse, too.
Vincentio.
Some double, unheard crime
They ponder.
Leonardo.
Let us go.
[Exeunt.
Enter Contarini and Loredano.
Contarini.
Chafe not at idle words.
Loredano.
I am not wont
To let them move me. In another age
The stain of insult must be washed with blood,
Or it grew rank, and spread unsightliness
On him that bore it. Now, though thrice reviled,
Thrice, at the banquet, in these times the steel
’Tis dangerous to wield. Hate is resisted
By wisdom.
Contarini.
And let wisdom vanquish hate.
And now to softer themes. Wilt go with me
Where pleasure ever waits to greet the guest?
Loredano.
The lady Fiorilla’s?
Contarini.
Fiorilla!
Shame! in a tone where bitterness so lately
Hath dwelt, to breathe her name—were not that name
Of power to sweeten all! Hear but her voice—
Oh! the dull spheres, to hear it, might descend,
Lessoned by music sweeter than their own!
’Twill charm the evil spirit from your soul,
As the enamored bard of old beguiled
Hell’s guilty prisoners to a transient bliss,
And won the bride he loved from Pluto’s arms!
Loredano.
You love this syren?
Contarini.
Nay—to shrines so fair,
Kneeling, we offer passionate vows, but dream not
Of single worship. Would the sun in heaven,
That fills the world with glory, treasure up
His gathered beams for one poor mortal’s gaze?
Or if he might, would not the dazzling tide
O’erwhelm his votary? Fiorilla’s charms
Were never made for one—and all who share
The sunlight of her smile, may bask in safety;
It shines on all alike.
Loredano.
You know I seek not
A lady’s favor. May your hopes grow ripe
Beneath her cherishing glance!
Contarini.
My dearest hopes
Are elsewhere fixed.
Loredano.
So fickle a gallant!
Contarini.
Your pardon! The majestic flower that spreads
Its beauties to the open eye of day
All may admire, and quaff its bounteous fragrance.
But love we less some gentle, shrinking bud,
That blooms but for our gaze?
Loredano.
Ha! and who plays
The treasured blossom to your miser’s bower?
Contarini.
A lovely, and a stately one; full soon
To be transplanted to that genial soil.
To night my vows I pay where hundreds more
Will emulate my worship. Will you go?
Loredano.
I’ll join you soon. [Exit Loredano.
Contarini.
He’ll serve my purpose well.
His anger is well-timed: it gives a color
To my intent, which makes all doubly sure.
This for the marble that so meetly yawns
For secret accusations. Loredano
Must aid my labors, while I reap the fruit. [Exit.