Morning and evening on thy flock; nor roam Upon these hills beneath a twice-risen sun Before thou find'st a father; he, a son. Cinthio. A mutual treasure-trove. But by what sign May I believe this bare assertion true? Conrad. Beneath thy left breast is a crescent mole; A flame has sealed a kiss upon thy cheek; A gold chain quaintly wrought hangs round thy neck, Hidden from every but the second sight. Cinthio. By heaven, these things are so! Now, who art thou? Rupert. Presumptuous, meddling fool! A plot, a plot! Confess who bribed thee. Guido 'twas, I warrant. Cinthio, what says the other? Cinthio. He gives me A noble father at no later date Than sunset of to-morrow; vouching this By nominating several private marks About my body. Rupert. So; well-planned, indeed! Wretched dissemblers, bear these wrinkles hence, That, being hypocrites, for age is wise, Shame that which they betoken. Quick, begone! [To Cinthio.] I'll tell thee more anon.--Stand not agape; Be off, trudge, trot; away! [Alardo and Conrad go out. Good, gentle mayors, Retire home for a little; lightly sup; Lightly to bed; at midnight, lightly up, To welcome May, to banish worldly jars, And wanton it like twinkling earthly stars, Outpeering those who then will deftly tread In joyous, maiden mirth, and all the night About the pure moon, from whose dark blue bed Her bower-maids singing sweetly-low aloud To wake their queen, will, with soft, quaint affright, Charily cast her coverlet of cloud: Stars must we all be when shall be displayed Our May-moon, Eulalie, earth's loveliest maid. [Mayers go out shouting. Felice, Bruno, and Torello follow. Cinthio. Was not this all too hurried, unripe, green? Rupert. No; inconsiderate I have not been. Grant what they prophesied of us should hap, It proves no science in the heaven's great map, Nor any other of unearthly mean: Their boasted foresight is of things past seen, And their informing spirits, my good lords. Now, do you scent the plot? In fewest words; Some certain knowledge of my sire and thine, Some hint that I would make Eulalia mine, The haughty stomachs and the fatuous brains Of my high cabinet, have feared with stains Upon our line to spring from Eulalie, Upon their wisdom in permitting me To have my bent; and so, to change my mind, Which by their own they fathom, and to bind Alardo to their penetrating wit, They taught these two, dismissed, to tempt this hit, Which, like a boomerang, returns to maim The flingers, who have made an evil aim. Cinthio. It seems to me this argument is lame. Rupert. Lame! Had you heard yon dotard tackle me About the marring of our family tree; Predicting sad disaster, ruin, death, O'erhanging state and king, which loosed by breath Of vows yet to be sworn to Eulalie Must thunder on us from the cloudy sky; No fear of wrong would linger in your head, No doubt would cripple what I now have said.