somewhat; but concerning Mademoiselle Eulalie, the Prince's sweetheart, we are in Egyptian darkness. Scipio. Behold, her mother is a fisherman's widow, who in her poverty nursed the half-drowned prince, pinching herself and her daughter, who was, if possible, more willing to be starved that the unknown sick gentleman might have dainties. She has no gold but the gold of her hair; and no jewels save her eyes. If beauty be riches, her wealth is incalculable; moreover, it is safely lodged in the bank of health. Felice. And the Prince, by legal usury, would increase her beauty if she would permit him. Scipio. Even so. But there is another merchant in terms for this commodity, for such he would make her. He has more bushels of gold than stones of flesh, and more carnality than wisdom. He is as strong as a horse, but a most outrageous braggart, and little better than a coward. He makes great estimation of his personal appearance, and his figure would be passable enough were it not so bent with worshipping his calves. He dresses like a herald or a macer; and grows the eccentricities of fashion into absurdities, lopping such as by their generality have almost become beauties. This great monkey must needs fall in love with my dainty Eulalie; and finding, though he come before her as gaudy as a serpent, that he works no fascination upon her, he has betaken himself to other charms, and hopes to approach her in a shower of gold. Felice. But she is no Danae, you would say; and that this would-be Jupiter will find. Now, what do you think? Shall we play some trick upon--what d'ye call him? Scipio. Torello. By Jove, I would give something to see him taken down a peg! Bruno. We'll peg him. We'll whip him about like a top. Felice. Then let us, as we wend along, conclude Some scheme to harm Torello for his good. ACT III SCENE I.--A Road. Enter Felice, Bruno and Scipio. Scipio. Yonder he is, puzzling over a paper. Neither of your lordships knows him? Felice. No. Scipio. It is no wonder. Since he fell in love he affects a kind of bearish melancholy; secludes himself; feeds his passion on fish, and has gross dreams. It will take some angling to catch him, gudgeon and all as he is. Enter Torello.