Act 2 — Scene I.—A Public Square in Parma. Night.

Ar. A lovely night! Prince. As Night we choose to call, When Day’s whole sun is but distributed Into ten thousand stars. Fel. Beside the moon, Who lightly muffled like ourselves reveals Her trembling silver. Laz. What! by way, you mean, Of making up the account? Ces. (aside). To think, alas! The first sweet vintage of my love thus lost, And, as my lady must too surely think, By my forgetfulness. (Aloud.) My lord, indeed The night wears on. May not the chiller air That blows from the returning tide of day Affect you? Prince. Nay, my state forbidding me Much to be seen about the streets by day, The night must serve my purpose. Ces. (aside). Patience then! And I must try and draw my thoughts from her I cannot reach. (Aloud.) How does the lady Flora Please you, my lord? Prince. The lady Flora? Oh, What she of Milan? Too far off, I think, For one’s regards to reach. Laz. Ah true, my lord; What is the use of a mistress in the moon, Unless one were the man there? Ar. Signora Laura Has a fair figure. Laz. Yes, and asks a high one. Felix. A handsome hand. Laz. At scolding, yes. Ar. I think She lives close by. Laz. But don’t you bid for her Without fair trial first, my lord. Your women Are like new plays, which self-complacent authors Offer at some eight hundred royals each, But which, when once they’re tried, you purchase dear Eight hundred for a royal. Ces. (aside). Now, methinks, Ev’n now my lady at the lattice stands Looking for me in vain, and murmuring ‘Why comes he not? I doubted I was late, But he comes not at all!’ And then—Ah me, I have forgotten to forget!— (Aloud) Celia sings well, my lord? Laz. A pretty woman Can no more sing amiss than a good horse Be a bad colour. Ces. The old Roman law To all the ugly women used to assign The fortunes of the handsome, thinking those Sufficiently endow’d with their good looks. Laz. Ah! and there Laura lives, the lass who said She’d sell her house and buy a coach withal; And when they ask’d her, where she’d live, quoth she, ‘Why in my coach!’ ‘But when night comes,’ say they, ‘Where then?’—‘Why in the coach-house to be sure!’[2] Ces. Indeed, indeed, my lord, the night wears on, And sure your sister lies awake foreboding Some danger to your person. Consider her anxiety! Prince (aside). Nay, yours Lies nearer to my heart. Ces. My lord? Prince. I said No matter for my sister, that was all; She knows not I’m abroad. Ces. My hope is gone! Laz. There, yonder in that little house, there lives A girl with whom it were impossible To deal straightforwardly. Prince. But why? Laz. She’s crooked. Ar. And there a pretty girl enough, but guarded By an old dragon aunt. Laz. O Lord, defend me From all old women! Prince. How so, Lazaro? Laz. Oh, ever since the day I had to rue The conjurer’s old woman. Prince. Who was she? Laz. Why, my lord, once upon a time I fell in love with one who would not have me Either for love or money: so at last I go to a certain witch—tell him my story: Whereon he bids me do this; cut a lock From my love’s head and bring it to him. Well, I watch’d my opportunity, and one day, When she was fast asleep, adroitly lopp’d A lovely forelock from what seem’d her hair, But was an hair-loom rather from her wig Descended from a head that once was young As I thought her. For, giving it the witch, To work his charm with, in the dead of night, When I was waiting for my love to come, Into my bed-room the dead woman stalk’d To whom the lock of hair had once belong’d, And claim’d me for her own. O Lord, how soon ‘Sweetheart’ and ‘Deary’ chang’d to ‘Apage!’ And flesh and blood to ice. Ces. (aside). Alas! what boots it trying to forget That which the very effort makes remember? Ev’n now, ev’n now, methinks once more I see her Turn to the window, not expecting me, But to abjure all expectation, And, as she moves away, saying, (methinks I hear her,) ‘Cesar, come when come you may, You shall not find me here.’ ‘Nay, but my love, Anna! my lady! hear me!’ Oh confusion, Did they observe? Prince (aside to Arias). How ill, Don Arias, Poor Cesar hides his heart— Ar. Ev’n now he tries The mask again. Prince. Indeed I pity him, Losing one golden opportunity; But may not I be pitied too, who never Shall have so much as one to lose? Ar. Speak low; You know her brother’s by. Prince. No matter; true Nobility is slowest to suspect. Musician (sings within). Ah happy bird, who can fly with the wind, Leaving all anguish of absence behind; Like thee could I fly, Leaving others to sigh, The lover I sigh for how soon would I find![3] Ces. Not an ill voice! Fel. Nay, very good. Prince. How sweetly Sweet words, sweet air, sweet voice, atone together! Arias, might we not on this sweet singer Try Lazaro’s metal and mettle? you shall see. Lazaro! Laz. My lord! Prince. I never go abroad But this musician dogs me. Laz. Shall I tell him Upon your Highness’s request, politely, To move away? Prince. I doubt me, Lazaro, He will not go for that, he’s obstinate. Laz. How then, my lord? Prince. Go up and strike him with your sword. Laz. But were it brave in me, back’d as I am, To draw my sword on one poor piping bird? If I must do it, let me challenge him Alone to-morrow. But let me warn him first. Prince. Do as I bid you, Or I shall call you coward. Ces. Lazaro, Obey his Highness. Laz. O good providence, Temper the wind to a shorn lamb! Musician (within). Ah happy bird, whom the wind and the rain, And snare of the fowler, beset but in vain; Oh, had I thy wing, Leaving others to sing, How soon would I be with my lover again! Laz. (aloud within). Pray God, poor man, if thou be innocent Of any ill intention in thy chirping, The blade I draw upon thee turn to wood! A miracle! A miracle! (Rushing in.) Prince. How now? Laz. The sword I lifted on an innocent man, Has turn’d to wood at his assailant’s prayer! Take it, my lord, lay ’t in your armoury Among the chiefest relics of our time. I freely give it you, upon condition You give me any plain but solid weapon To wear instead. Prince. You are well out of it. It shall be so. Ces. My lord, indeed the dawn Is almost breaking. Prince. Let it find us here. But, my dear Cesar, tell me, are you the better For this diversion? Ces. Oh, far cheerfuller. Though with some little effort. Prince. And I too. So love is like all other evils known; With others’ sorrow we beguile our own.