Act 2 — SCENE III.—A Gallery in the Chateau.
Reading edition
Enter Rosabelle followed by Gaspard.
Gasp. Ha! young mistress Rosabelle, whither so fast I pray? ’faith, damsel, you are fleet of foot.
Ros. Yet my steps are heavier than my heart, for that’s all feather, ready for any flight in fancy’s hemisphere; give thought but breath, and ’twere blown in a second to the moon or the antipodes, wilt along with me, Gaspard?
Gasp. What, to the moon or the antipodes? Alack! damsel, I should prove but a sorry travelling companion upon either road; no, no, youth is for night; but age for falls.
Ros. Wilt turn a waltz anon, and be my partner in the dance?
Gasp. Hey! madcap, have we dances toward?
Ros. Ay! upon the terrace presently, all the world will assemble there; the lady Geraldine and myself for beauty; and then for rank, we shall have the count himself, and the baron, and the chevalier, and—
Gasp. Out upon you, magpie; would you delude the old man with fables? his lordship, the count, among revellers! truly a pleasant jest; I have been his watchful servant these twenty years, and never knew him to abide the sight or sound of pleasures.
Ros. Then I can acquaint you, he proposes on this day to regale both his eyes and his ears with a novelty; I heard him promise lady Geraldine to join the pastimes on the terrace.
Gasp. Oh! the blest tidings: damsel, thy tongue has made a boy of me again.
Ros. Now charity forefend, for so should I bring thee to thy second childhood.
Gasp. Ah! would you fleer me! his lordship among revellers! oh! the blest prodigy! well, well, I give no promise, mark; but should a certain damsel lack a partner, adod. I know not—sixty-live shows with an ill-grace in a rigadoon, but for a minuet: well, well, St. Vitus strengthen me, and I accept thy challenge. Exit.
Ros. Go thy ways, thou antique gallantry; thy pledge shall never be endangered by my claim; I’m for a brisker partner in every dance through life, I promise thee.
AIR.—Rosabelle. On the banks of the Rhine, at the sun-setting hour, Oh! meet me, and greet me, my true love, I pray! Or feasting, or sleeping, in hall, or in bower, To the Rhine-bank, oh! true love, rise up and away! On that bank, an old willow dejectedly grieves And drops from each leaf, for love’s falsehoods, a tear; Go! rivals, and gather the willow’s pale leaves, For falsehood ne’er cross’d between me and my dear.
Exit.