ACT IV.—SCENE I.

A Church.

Enter two Citizens.

first citizen. Strange omens these!

second citizen. They bode disaster, else Hath Nature changed, and her accustom'd course No longer holds.—See, from the ducal vault The stone—o'er which its mailed warrior rests In such grim pomp—is roll'd, as if that mouth Expectant yawn'd for prey.—How comes it thus?

third citizen. Some swarth attendant, late within the tomb, Hath left unclosed its yet insatiate gulf; And he returns ere long.—His task complete, This stone, oft visited, regains its place;— Would it were closed for ever!

second citizen. Ne'er to his country's weal a truer prince Shall rise in Mantua—all proper tongues To his just praise are eloquent;—no voice But gathers blessing, when it speaks of Andrea. I'll peep o'er the dark wall of this huge grave. Fresh wonders still!—Here lie funeral trappings Covering the entrance;—an inscription too Upon the pall—[Reads]—"Andrea, the fifth Duke Of Mantua"—a goodly list of honours, Names and illustrious acts, now follow—"Died"— I cannot tell those mystic characters— Canst thou assign their import?

first citizen. I am not skill'd To interpret mysteries; but they are form'd By cabalistic art. Elsewhere I've seen The conjuror, Aldenbert, those uncouth shapes Upon his tablets tracing. 'Tis not language Akin to mortal tongue.

second citizen. Treason, I wot, with bold and impious front, Stalks forth uncheck'd:—it skulks not now abroad, But in the open day roams unabash'd, Nor shuns the sunbeam. Some unform'd event Is yet in ripening—it bursts ere long The shell of this dread mystery.

Enter Grave-digger and Priest.

grave-digger. None, father, save the Egyptian woman, who so troubles the church. She slept in the porch yesternight, and I sent her away this morning betimes.

priest. Thou hast sent a message to the Duke?

grave-digger. Some half-hour agone.—I expect his highness in person will take special note of this matter.

priest. I fear me they be foes, enemies to the Duke, who have done this.—Treachery puts on bold aspects, when such foretokenings as these go before her, with loud admonishing of her approach. Here comes the Duke.

Enter Duke with Attendants.

duke. Good morrow, friends. I am something curious to behold this device.—Some trick of intimidation, your petty wonder-monger breeds to set our citizens agape.—You have not disturbed this masked frolic?

grave-digger. My lord, it rests in such shape as when it scared me dismally ere the light was well out, about cock-crowing.

duke. Knowest thou any skulking vagrant of late loitering near the church?

grave-digger. None, your grace, save the tall gipsy—she slept in the porch yesternight.

duke. The gipsy woman?

grave-digger. She, with the linen turban, that walks the city with her arms folded—thus.

duke. She was in the porch?

grave-digger. I waked her there, but roughly, an hour agone.

duke. Here hangs some clue to guide us.—I'll have the beldame seized.—Raise that unseemly pall from the tomb, and close its mouth.—This inscription I'll keep as a brief chronicle of the event.—[Takes off the inscription: a billet falls from beneath it.]—What counsels us here? One wonder treads fast upon another's heels, and o'ertops its neighbour.—[Reads.]—"I have garnished thy tomb, and it waiteth not for its prey. Depart!—When thou goest forth, but once shalt thou return hither!"—Guard, search the city—every chink and avenue.—To your utmost speed.—This hag shall not escape.—Hence!—[Exit Guard.]—My friends, let not this matter trouble you; some mischievous spirit hath malice at our peace, and hopes to work confusion within the city.—Soon we unravel the flimsy web of this strange craft. [Exeunt.