The Duchess of Padua. Wilde Oscar

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      There is one secret which ye shall not share;

      Bid him go hence.

      Come back within the hour.

      He does not know that nothing in this world

      Can dim the perfect mirror of our love.

      Within the hour come.

      Speak not to him,

      There is a dreadful terror in his look.

      Nay, nay, I doubt not that he has come to tell

      That I am some great Lord of Italy,

      And we will have long days of joy together.

      Within the hour, dear Ascanio.

      Now tell me of my father?  [Sits down on a stone seat.]

      Stood he tall?

      I warrant he looked tall upon his horse.

      His hair was black? or perhaps a reddish gold,

      Like a red fire of gold?  Was his voice low?

      The very bravest men have voices sometimes

      Full of low music; or a clarion was it

      That brake with terror all his enemies?

      Did he ride singly? or with many squires

      And valiant gentlemen to serve his state?

      For oftentimes methinks I feel my veins

      Beat with the blood of kings.  Was he a king?

      Ay, of all men he was the kingliest.

      Then when you saw my noble father last

      He was set high above the heads of men?

      Ay, he was high above the heads of men,

      On a red scaffold, with a butcher’s block

      Set for his neck.

      What dreadful man art thou,

      That like a raven, or the midnight owl,

      Com’st with this awful message from the grave?

      I am known here as the Count Moranzone,

      Lord of a barren castle on a rock,

      With a few acres of unkindly land

      And six not thrifty servants.  But I was one

      Of Parma’s noblest princes; more than that,

      I was your father’s friend.

      Tell me of him.

      You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo,

      He was the Prince of Parma, and the Duke

      Of all the fair domains of Lombardy

      Down to the gates of Florence; nay, Florence even

      Was wont to pay him tribute —

      Come to his death.

      You will hear that soon enough.  Being at war —

      O noble lion of war, that would not suffer

      Injustice done in Italy! – he led

      The very flower of chivalry against

      That foul adulterous Lord of Rimini,

      Giovanni Malatesta – whom God curse!

      And was by him in treacherous ambush taken,

      And like a villain, or a low-born knave,

      Was by him on the public scaffold murdered.

      Doth Malatesta live?

      No, he is dead.

      Did you say dead?  O too swift runner, Death,

      Couldst thou not wait for me a little space,

      And I had done thy bidding!

      Thou canst do it!

      The man who sold thy father is alive.

      Sold! was my father sold?

      Ay! trafficked for,

      Like a vile chattel, for a price betrayed,

      Bartered and bargained for in privy market

      By one whom he had held his perfect friend,

      One he had trusted, one he had well loved,

      One whom by ties of kindness he had bound —

      And he lives

      Who sold my father?

      I will bring you to him.

      So, Judas, thou art living! well, I will make

      This world thy field of blood, so buy it straight-way,

      For thou must hang there.

      Judas said you, boy?

      Yes, Judas in his treachery, but still

      He was more wise than Judas was, and held

      Those thirty silver pieces not enough.

      What got he for my father’s blood?

      What got he?

      Why cities, fiefs, and principalities,

      Vineyards, and lands.

      Of which he shall but keep

      Six feet of ground to rot in.  Where is he,

      This damned villain, this foul devil? where?

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