| Words by J. Roby. | Air from a modern Concerto. |
Hear, oh hear, for Thou art nigh.
Though the clouds of sorrow rise
Darkly o'er these troubled skies;
Speak the word, "Let there be light!"
Bid the morning chase the night.
Father, hear a suppliant's prayer;
Darkness flies when Thou art there!
SHEW PITY, LORD
[Listen]
The Melody by J. Roby; the Harmonies varied by V. Novello.
[Extracted, by permission, from the Congregational and Chorister's Psalm and Hymn-Book. Dufour, Piccadilly.]
Let a repenting rebel live.
Are not thy mercies large and free?
May not a sinner trust in Thee?
Against thy law, against thy grace;
Lord, should thy judgment grow severe,
I am condemned, but Thou art clear.
Whose hope, still hovering round thy word,
Would light on some sweet promise there,
Some sure support against despair.
LYRICS.
Some of the following short poems were composed early in life, while two or three of those last in order are of a very recent date. Those to which dates are appended are from another pen. It was intended by Mr. Roby that they should appear with his own productions. The survivor will be forgiven the mournful pleasure of thus partially fulfilling one of those purposes whose "inward light," was wont to
LINES
WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF FRIENDS FROM ENGLAND.
As with an arrow's flight;
The untamed winds thy coursers wild,
The waves thy chariot bright.—
But there are hearts within that shrine
Where wilder billows swell,
Where the last pang is quivering now
The last fond word—"Farewell."
Thou vast and troubled deep!
On thy still waters let the sigh
Of dim-eyed sorrow sleep.
Bright hearts, bright hearths, and merry homes
Their voice is on the wind.—
Be hush'd, ye blasts; too loud ye bring
Their echoes on the mind.
Fast as the summer cloud,
And stranger climes and stranger forms
Pass, like a pageant proud.
But blessings still your path pursue,
Where'er that path may lie;
Since every devious maze ye trace
Beneath a guiding eye.
Beneath the western sea,
Awhile, like him, your lonesome flight,
Like his, your destiny.—
Though setting now in clouds and gloom,
The day-spring shall arise,
And yon pale star, like you, appear
In pomp from eastern skies!
And sooth'd those seas to rest,
Yet whisper in the gentlest winds,
That breathe on ocean's breast.
But there are waves of mightier power
His voice alone can still,
The soul's keen throb,—its louder surge
Grows peaceful at his will!
As with an arrow's flight,
The untamed winds thy coursers wild,
The waves thy chariot bright!
But there are hearts within that shrine
Where wilder billows swell,
Where the last pang is quivering now
The last fond word—"Farewell!"
PREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM.
Bound up in cow-skin—or sometimes in calf,
All tool'd and gilt—where every pert-eyed miss,
Her pretty pouting lips (too ripe by half),
Hangs o'er the snow-white page—then steals a laugh,
Something between a simper and a smile;—
"Law, I can't write!—Ridiculous, to spoil
I have no notion——Will an extract do
From Moore or Byron?" "No, write something new."
All bright and glorious, like the morn of life,
Not darken'd with rude blots;—no dim presage
Scrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,—where no knife,
Like eating care, obliterates.—The strife,
The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,
Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.
If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,
Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?
Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,
Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?
It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.
Like opera-overtures, the melody
I know the story should foretoken, telling
Of love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;
Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,
Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.
Or may not gather, hard to say methinks.
'Tis somewhat strange, e'en for this marvellous day,
Writing a preface to blank leaves,—a sphynx
'Twould puzzle to undo, like Hymen's links!
The paper's pretty, and a pretty book:
So far seems certain. What may next be shook
From Fate's grim bag, n'importe—umquhile, I trow,
Time flits, hopes bud, and wither ere they blow.
If joy or sorrow on that morn shall rise,
What I may then, or thou shalt surely be
I dare not mutter with articulate voice!
And yet I'll try a word or so (no lies,
I hate them); 'tis irrevocable fate
I now unfold. Listen, as though there sate
The wizard seer thy destiny revealing;
Bright hopes, grim horror, o'er thy vision stealing!
Bliss none other bosom knows,
Love shall scorch thee with its fire,
Maiden, ere these pages close.
Glimmer on thine aching brain,
Swifter fading from thy sight,
Ne'er shall dawn those dreams again.
Pulse on pulse in anguish beating,
Oft shall sink that storm to rest,
Hope and love those wild waves meeting.
Shall thy bosom oft o'erflow,
All that woman's heart may bear,
All that woman's breast may know.
Change to deeper, deadlier foes.
Love shall die and hope have perish'd,
Maiden, ere these pages close!"
TO ——
Meet it were that love should die;
Teach the winds, thou fond false-hearted,
Teach the light wave constancy!
We have loved as we shall never
Dare on earth to love again!
Hearts thus twined, when they shall sever,
Wear no more love's bootless chain.
Tell the wind thy power to flee,
Bid the chafed and restless ocean
Sleep, aye, sleep unchangeably.
Will the lash'd wave cease its wailing?
Will the moaning billow rest?
Then may Hope with joys unfailing,
Fled like mine, appease thy breast.
STANZAS.
Bounds my lover's bark to me;
The breeze hath woo'd the fluttering sail,
Fast flies the prow from the wanton gale."
The lady sung.—'Twas the lone sea-mew
O'er the waters wail'd, as he wistfully flew.
Waft, ye winds, my true love home:
I hear not yet the dripping oar,
The surge uncleft yet greets the shore."
The lady gazed.—'Twas the rushing blast,
Like some spirit of might, on the waters pass'd!
Ruder winds the billows sweep;
The lady hath left her lattice bower,—
"Why tarries my love till the midnight hour?"
Swift answer came.—'Twas a shuddering moan,
As her lover's cold corse at her feet was thrown!
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[J]
Are thy vows when we parted,
Have other links bound thee,
Thou fickle false-hearted?
Go fling to the winds thy last tenderest vow,
They are not so changing, so reckless as thou.
The warm gush from thy heart,
So soon dry their torrent?
So quickly depart?
Like dew on the flower, like the web when 'tis broken,—
Oh frailer than these, woman's vows when they're spoken.
In my heart's holiest shrine,
No memory was hidden,
No image but thine?
And I deem'd thee some hallow'd, some heaven-given thing,
Entwined round my bosom for ever to cling.
On that treacherous bark,
A woman's fond love;—
When the billows grew dark,
The bright sea was ruffled, the loud storm rush'd on,
My hopes are all wreck'd, and that light bark is gone.
For I scorn thy words now;
Yet no tears thou wilt shed
Can heal one broken vow;
No weeping can cleanse that one foul perjured stain,
Or quench the keen fire that now scorches my brain.
There's a worm in thy breast,
A gloom on thy soul
Where no sunshine shall rest;
To which e'en the agony thou hast made mine
Is blessing and bliss when compared but with thine.
THE FAIRIES' SONG.
O'er the bright and bounding sea,
Dancing merrily.
We glide to the shore in our fairy bark,
When the moon looks out on high,
And the waves twinkle round us in many a spark,
Like radiant melody.
We dance to the sound of the calm cold billow,
Ere it sleeps on the sand, ere it dies on its pillow.
Under the greenwood tree,
Dancing merrily.
And the moon through yon white and fleecy cloud,
Pale, silent, and softly creeps,
Like a spectre clad in a silvery shroud,
While nature quietly sleeps.
We merrily trip it with twinkling feet,
As the leaves rustle o'er us in melody sweet.
Away, away,
At break of day,
For night is the fairies' holiday.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[K]
Loved one fare thee well!
Tears and vows deceive no more,
When broken every spell.
Suns that set shall rise;
But no dawn illumes the night,
When Hope's last glimmer dies!
On some dreary shore;
Calm shall be that colder sleep,
Life's dark vision o'er.
Yet mercy whispers nigh,
Immortal life beyond the dead,
And bliss beyond the sky.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
The sunbeams are glancing,
On lake and on fountain,
The light ray is dancing.
But yon mountain is dark, though the sunbeams are bright,
And yon fountain is cold, though 'tis quivering with light.
Feels dark and opprest,
While around, mirth and gladness
Illumine each breast.
And the smiles that to others with rapture may glow,
Leave that bosom alone to its darkness and woe.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
The tear in woman's eye;
But as I gazed, that smile grew dim,
That liquid fount was dry.
And kiss'd the plighted token:—
But I have lived to feel how false
What woman's lip hath spoken!
That skims the morning air
Is woman's vow, that binds the heart
In witchery or despair!
I may not, dare not tell!
I only know that I have loved
Too fondly, and too well.
STANZAS.
On life's dull current fleeting,
A thousand hues and visions bright
On its frail surface meeting;
It breaks, and where that vision fair?
Ocean's dark depth may answer, Where?
On life's dark billows thrown;
Oh, glorious the first glance
That on those waters shone!
'Tis gone,—those waves, illum'd no more,
Roll darkly on life's desert shore.
Life's stormy clouds between,
Of that bright heaven, where all
Is cloudless and serene;
A look, ere night and darkness come,
Beyond the terrors of the tomb!
Love's cruel pangs deceive,
Say what shall be the garland
For lovers' brows to weave?
A lone leaf on a blasted tree,
This, this Love's coronal shall be!
SONG.
The following lines were written to the air No. 4, in the 5th book of Mendelsohn's "Lieder ohne Wörte."
That ought could ever
This fond heart sever
From love and thee
Go, bid the billow
Now calm its motion,
The restless ocean
Rest endlessly!
All earthly blessing,
Not worth possessing,—
Away I'd flee.
And far from home, love—
My lost hopes mourning—
Nor thence returning,—
I'd pray for thee!
To earthly gladness,
There is a sadness
More glad than mirth,—
The joy of sorrow;
The sweetest pleasure,
A tear-bought treasure
Of heavenly birth!
Were darkness veiling,
Yet light unfailing
In death shall rise!
Though day departeth,
Nor cloud nor sorrow
Shall dim that morrow
In yonder skies!
THE FRIEND.
Is closer than a brother's,—
Tender, endearing,—'tis above
E'en fondness like a mother's:—
She may forget her suckling's cry,
His ear attends the feeblest sigh.
By care and anguish riven,
Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest,
From other refuge driven:—
And earth, with all its joys and fears,
Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.
The cloud through azure sweeping,
Their brightness owe to sadder hours,
Their calm, to storms and weeping.—
That Friend shall thus each tear illume,
To forms of glory shape that gloom.
Dark as the brow of sorrow;
Those dew pearls wreath'd in emerald green,
Once wept a coming morrow:—
But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,
And all was light and ecstacy.
Of night's grey coronet,
Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,
Had yon bright sun ne'er set,
Were hidden still from mortal sight,
Lost in impenetrable light.
Dark as the shroud of even,
A thousand glories glitter from
The burning arch of heaven!
Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,
New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.
With lamps of living fire?
Who, when the hosts of morning sung,
First listen'd to their quire?
The Man of Sorrows mercy sent,—
In heav'n the God!—the Omnipotent!
Nor life nor death shall sever!
Eternal as yon throne above,
Unchanged, endures for ever.
What would'st thou more, frail fabric of the dust;
Omnipotence thy Shield!—thy Refuge!—Trust!
LINES TO A LADY
WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD NEVER SEEN.
Yet fancy oft would trace
Expression, features, look, with all
Their witchery or grace.
I felt its melting tone,
That came like some mysterious spell,
Unbidden and alone!
First-born of morning light;
In darkness oft I saw thee still,
A vision of the night.
The same sweet image brings,
And fancy o'er the mimic scene,
Her own bright halo flings.
Imagination threw,
As though past, present, and to come
Were open to her view!
From earthly dross refin'd,
Pierc'd this material and left
Mortality behind!
With unquench'd potency,
Forth from the Omnipotent,—a light
From his omniscient eye?
First breath'd into our breast;
An image of the Infinite,
On finite pow'rs impress'd.
From heav'n's own light they shine,
Imagination, fancy, thought,
Their origin divine!
THE BIRCH
ON THE WORCESTERSHIRE BEACON, GREAT MALVERN.
That fairy birchen tree,
Its yellow leaves in the autumn breeze
Were flutt'ring heavily.
Ere the storms of winter came;
And stripp'd and bare stood my birchen tree,
But a wreck to tell its name.
When the earth was chang'd to stone,
On the leafless boughs a hoary show'r,
As a spell of heav'n was thrown.
Like a banner gently furl'd;
It seem'd, in its pure and peerless grace,
A gift from another world.
When the early frosts are come,
When the greenness has pass'd from life away,
And the music of earth is dumb;
O'er the lonely heart are flung,
And our spirit knows a holier joy
Than that to which erst it clung.
That our wayward hearts may learn,
There is peace for the stripp'd and wearied ones,
Who in faith to their Father turn.
ASTROLOGY.
The fate of man is writ:
Yet quail not, Christian, at the sign;
By Love those lamps are lit.
THE FIRST REVELATION.
Suggested by the story of a child, whose father, an educated man, but an infidel, if not an atheist, had not allowed him to receive any religious culture. Being one day reproved by a friend for using profane language, on the ground that it was displeasing to God, he enquired who was meant. He instantly apprehended with delight all that was told him of the nature and attributes of the Supreme Being, as if the idea had been latent in his mind, until thus called forth into recognised existence.
Floating dimly undefin'd
Like a picture scarce design'd.
Inarticulate at best,
Haunting ever that young breast.
And the shades of night are broken,
And by that same lustrous token.
Memnon music on the ear
Falls articulate and clear.
To the eye by Death unseal'd,
Shall completed being yield,
As dim portents to the eye,
From the spirit's vision fly.
Which the untaught ear oft greet,
Shall a lucid tale repeat.
Past its agony and strife—
Be with seven-fold Glory rife.
AN EVENING HYMN.
Woods, waves, their ev'ning hymn
Murmur to Thee.
One pale star ocean seeks,
One waveless glimmer breaks
O'er that lone sea.
Sighs like love's parting tale,
Whispers not words.
Clouds come not o'er that night,
Stars burn with purer light
Than earth affords.
Thy soothing dreamy rest
Waft o'er my soul;
While thoughts of heav'nly birth,
Untouch'd by aught of earth,
Undimm'd may roll.—
Meet death's calm silent sea,
Setting to rise.
Bright'ning still while we sink,
On that dread ocean brink,
To other skies!
THE DUKE OF MANTUA.
A Tragedy.
| MEN. | ||
| Andrea, | Duke of Mantua. | |
| Ridolfi, | the Duke's Foster-brother. | |
| Carlos, | in love with Hermione. | |
| Bertrand, | Friend to Carlos. | |
| Fabian, Sylvio, | } | Pages attending on the Duke. |
| Giulio, | a Minstrel attending on Carlos. | |
| Stephano, Roland, | } | Servants to Ridolfi. |
| Priest. | ||
| Grave-Digger. | ||
| Citizens of Mantua. | ||
| WOMEN. | ||
| Beatrice, | Duchess of Mantua. | |
| Hermione, | Cousin to Ridolfi. | |
| Laura, | Sister to Ridolfi. | |
| Zorayda, | a Gipsy. | |
| Blanch, | Servant to Hermione. | |
| Guards, Soldiers, &c. | ||
Scene—Mantua.
THE DUKE OF MANTUA.
ACT I.—SCENE I.
A Room in the Duke's Palace at Mantua.
Enter the Duke and Ridolfi.
ridolfi.
Hermione again visits my house.—
Your presence, good my lord, with your fair dame,
I would solicit.
duke.
Well, Ridolfi, be it so:—to-day,
If nought forbid the time:—Hermione,
Thou say'st?—I do remember, yet so slight, 'tis scarce
The shadow of her form. But once, my brother,
'Twas one fair summer's eve, awhile I saw
Thy sprightly coz: a laughter-loving spirit,
She threw quick mirth as the unbidden shafts
Of innocent love, scattering with hand profuse
Her joyous pranks. I was but newly wedded,
Scarce past the honey-moon; Beatrice hung
Fondly upon mine arm, and we too laugh'd,
On that still night, until the whisp'ring woods
Grew loud, and thousand voices started forth
From bough and hoary stem, bursting as if
To riotous life; and yet her giddy face,
Playful and changing as the restless wave,
I cannot fashion now from memory's storehouse—
How fares thy cousin?
ridolfi.
Still by love, my lord,
She comes untamed; but time, one delicate shade
Hath slightly pass'd upon her wanton mirth,
Softening the ruder bursts of her high spirit,
Tinged ofttime now with gentler thought.
duke.
'Tis well
When ripening years mellow the gaudy hue
Of youth's rich fancies, sparkling else too bright
For its repose.——We visit thee to-day.—
This tribute say we give Hermione.
ridolfi.
Much honour hold we from your presence:
Our poorer hospitality excuse,
As you are wont. Adieu! No costly feast
We give, but our glad welcome. [Exit.
duke.
A brother still,—a friend
To cheer my way through life's dark wilderness.
Thou art a feeble light, and yet I love
To watch thy tremulous blaze, blessing the gloom,
And shedding round my path its thousand gems,
Sprinkling perchance some loathed and hideous form
With thy pale gleam. How tender hast thou been
To my worst weaknesses, my foibles, all
Heart-withering cares! Though born to humbler honours,
I call thee friend. Well hast thou earn'd from me
That sacred name! One bosom nourish'd us:
One hand our childhood rear'd; twining we grew
Unto one stem, till riches and high birth
Bore me brief space from that beloved soil,—
That home, to which our very nature yet
Seems most akin.——
Of proud descent, unsullied as mine own,
Thou yet canst boast: if not of titled wealth,
Of outward garb, thy suit becomes thee well;
And I do love thee more than if array'd
In ducal coronet. Beatrice too
Hath prized him for my sake, and her esteem
I do repay with tenfold love.——
Fierce, feverish love!—thine idle dreams,—fleeting
As cloud-fed vapour, yon o'erarching bow
Bestrides,—fade as the sunbeam on the sky
Dispels the glowing mist. 'Tis well, if then
The welkin clear'd, each circumstance and form,—
Fashion'd realities by truth impress'd
Upon the craving eye-balls,—O 'tis well
If on these fix'd and palpable images
Of roused and wakening sense, the eye may rest
With unappeased delight! But if the while
Love's light-wing'd visions fade, nought fills the void
Save chilling wastes, trackless, unlimited,
That echo back their own grim desolation
To the appalled spirit. What escape
The shrinking soul is left, save one dark path
To unappointed death? I thank thee, Heaven,
Thou sparest me this trial! Love hath still
With proud esteem held equal sway: in peace,
Untroubled they divide their several empire.——
But I must hence; Beatrice I would greet
First with these tidings of Hermione. [Exit.
SCENE II.
A Hall in the House of Ridolfi.
Enter Servants, preparing for an Entertainment.
roland.
Help me with this wine, Stephano.
stephano.
Help thee? yea, my wishes be thy help. I hope thou
wilt have unhelped speed.
roland.
Truce to thy wit, comrade, for it helpeth me not, save
an' my fingers to this cudgel, and thine hide to a basting.
stephano.
Nay, spare thy wit, and thy cudgel to boot: mine hide
endureth it not tenderly. If I should wince, thou mightest
come to harm. A dainty flagon this: would that thy mouth
were as dry as my lips, and our bellies had changed occupants!
Thy lazy body would be lighter, methinks, and I
better able to carry thee.——
roland.
The Lady Hermione! Oh, how I do love her sweet face,
Stephano! She smiles an' it were so temptingly when she
speaks! "Good Roland," says she, "give me of that wine."—"Kind
Roland, do go to the bath, and carry my little
spaniel:"—or thus, "Honest master Roland, pray take my
basket, and bring me thy master's garden mittens." This
house, I trow, Stephano, she makes like to some gay palace,
when she visits it; as pleasant and full of goodness as the
Duke's pantry, who comes to the feast to-day. She was here
some two years agone, and I thought I should have pined
away at heart when she left.
stephano.
Tush! thou star-stricken marmoset! Is she not a woman?
Are not all women as full of deceit as their grandmothers?
Is not Eve's flesh upon the bones of the very best jade in
Christendom? and this blowzy-bell of thine, beshrew me,
has no better a covering than the rest of 'em. This dainty
hoyden thou delightest to worship, man, can be as chary of
her winning looks as any of her sisterhood; and if I have
not seen a storm brewing in her face, I have seen a water-spout
in her eye, marry, which is almost fathomless. Mark
me, Roland; if any good comes of her mummery, I am no
true prophet, that's all.
roland.
Envious in this, I do guess, Stephano. Why does she not
smile on thee—eh? Thy stupid face, seamed like a beggar's
coat; thy marvellous bright eyes and small nostrils; or,
mayhap, I might the rather mean, thy marvellous bright
nostrils and small eyes, make tears come into her delicate
organs by sympathy, like the stroke of a dull razor. I tell
thee, man, she cannot smile fronting thy mis-shapened countenance.
I know many gentlewomen that bear not an ugly
serving-man about them; and the delicate Hermione, I
should bethink me, hath aversion to such.—I like her the
better, Stephano, for thine ugliness.
stephano.
Thou mis-shapen cur, time serves not to correct thee.
What! dost brag if thy grinning leer provoke her mirth?
"Sweet Roland," ah, "good Roland," put thy nose to the
curling irons, and twist thy mouth with thy garters. I can
tell thee, "Master Roland," this favourite hath her privy
counsellors, and she not a wit loth to trust 'em. Ah, ah!
"honest Roland," perhaps thou didst help her to the terrace
key o' yesternight; and it was "kind Roland, fetch me"—oh,
her pretty spaniel was it, "Master Roland?"
roland.
Nay, thou art in jest. Sawest thou the Lady Hermione
with the key last night?
stephano.
I heard a noise in the gallery, and I jumped hastily from
my mattress, and who should I see but Hermione, with her
chamber-lamp, opening the door which leads to the garden
terrace. What sayest thou, Roland?
roland.
The key I fetched not.
stephano.
Then, it seems, she lacks not other "honest" friends for
matters of more need, and they in nothing loth to serve her.
roland.
Didst thou watch her further?
stephano.
Ay, good Roland, or I do not deserve to know the worth
of a pretty secret.
roland.
Well?—
stephano.
Thou art curious, i' faith. What makes thee look so
wistful?
roland.
Come, thou lucky knave, I want the burden of thy song.
How sped she?
stephano.
I hied me to the topmost lattice, overlooking—
roland.
Who was the gallant?
stephano.
Why truly he had a brighter face than thine own, but
shorn off somewhat from the left cheek.
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 titles, 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 unclaiméd 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 unassuming 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.