Castelvines y Monteses (Cosens)/Act 3/Scene 3
SCENE III.—Room in the Palace of the Lord of Verona.
Count Paris, in mourning, and Lord of Verona.
Paris. From out this sable grief no gleam
Of dawning gladness dare I even dream.
Verona. He who reasons with discretion, Count,
Will find that Fortune rests upon a globe.
The mounting waves do ripple at her feet,
Now shouting with the storm, now smiling in the calm:
And thus dame Fortune leads us on to death,
Crowns evil with success, and joy doth nurse with woe.
Count. Sir, I am well advised
That were I master of a thousand worldly joys,
And by her fickleness did lose them all,
I'd laugh as loud as Democritus e'er did.
But that sweet angel now lies dead
Who made me joyous for a day—sweet bride!
The city mourns her as a sister dead.
My courage limps beneath the pressure of my woe.
Had she but lived a year—a month—
A week—a day—some consolation I might know
In place of anguish deep:
But holding thus the heavy hand of woe,
The force of fate doth bear me on to where
Death's silent shadows fall. To bear
Such woe doth need a heart of bronze.
Verona. 'Twas wisely order'd from above.
Had it been a year—a month—a week—
A day—as love grew stronger so the pain
Should have grown more intense.
Count. Oh, that such bliss had but been mine!
I cannot cheat my grief, the soul will pine.
Enter a Servant and Antonio following.
Servant. With great Verona's noble Lord
Antonio Castelvin doth audience crave.
Verona (aside to Count). See with what courage he doth bear his woe!
Antonio. I come not, sir, to fill thine ears
With lamentations deep, nor yet with tears
To wring your soften'd hearts. Nor tell
How much in error cruel Death hath been
To respite one whose life hath spann'd
Some steps beyond the goal.
'Tis said that Love and Death a journey went
In winter—I marvel much that Love should journey thus
With one who could so chill his loving heat,
For death is wintry cold.—Howbeit, they journey'd on,
Until the hostelry in sight, there lying down
They slept well past the midnight-hours:
Rising in the misty light exchanged their darts,
And bidding each adieu did journey on
Their separate roads; and as they went,
Each fitted feathered shaft and twang'd his bow.
But after this the young men died,
And old men fell in love. The interchange
Once made could never be annull'd.
In mine own house now 'tis seen, alas!
My daughter Julia dead. Otavio, too,
Whom she did love, is lifeless clay,
My house is now a desert drear,
While I have great possessions; so
That my kin would have me wed my niece,
Or all our names and wealth do die
With us.
Count (apart to Verona). Tis but a miser's artful tale.
Antonio. I, who had hoped to know such sweet content,
My Julia wedded to this noble Count, and I
Arranged my bridal, too! Poor Julia! child
Sleeping in the silent tomb! and so
The world doth go. Ah me! ah me! and yet
Good Dorotea doth respond, and for our wedding seeks
A dispensation now from Rome.
Verona. If, then, no chance there be to save these wide estates
But thou to wed fair Dorotea, thy closest kin alive,
She will in thee most surely find
One ever ready to consult each wish;
For as Otavio and the Lady Julia now be dead,
So great a treasure for thy state as Dorotea is
Doth not Verona know.
Count. I join you, sir, in every hope of joy;
Mayst thou, Antonio, live both loving and beloved:
The heritage more seemly is, to rest with thee.
Antonio. Not so; still evil must be met.
I came to tell thee of these sad events,
Which, having fallen most crossly, thus
Do follow to their end.
Verona. Time doth plough gently o'er thy brow,
Grey hairs should ever command respect.
Unseemly 'tis to speak of age whene'er
The bride is present. All should then be mum.
Antonio. Only to one who cares for face and youth,
But not to one who merit seeks and truth.
Count. Such marks good reason for thy choice.
Verona. Age and regret first cousins be.
Antonio. Adieu! I go to visit my young bride.
Count. With heavy heart I go—whate'er betide! [Exeunt.