qualities, of immeasurable strength, it creates a concretion: you have here, without doubt, suddenly and potently summoned up this apparition of Rupert, its spoken nonsense and ridiculous gait. It must be so. Sir, your imagination is godlike. Bruno. Torello, my imagination cannot form a metaphor to express the admiration, the reverence, your genius inspires in me. Many a poetical dreamer would thank God on his knees for a tithe of your gift. Torello. Did you not see the prince? Felice. With that solemn face! Ha, ha! You carry the jest; but you cannot create a vision for our eyes. Bruno. Come; deride us no longer. Confess you have befooled us. Torello. We are all befooled, I think. This sorceress is charming us. Felice. Love, I say, stirred your imagination to plant this jealous fancy against that ash, and gave it language chiming with your fear, and hath almost persuaded you of its reality. To the witch, and be satisfied. Torello. Ay, let us to the witch. She may have sent this vision to spur me on. What shall I say to her?--I would swear I saw Rupert. Felice. We'll teach you what to say as we go. [They go out. SCENE III.--Another Part of the Wood. Enter on one side Green and Ivy, tipsy; on the other Celio and Sylvia, singing. Song. O, the day is loud and busy! Every blush the sun discovers. Loud and busy, bright and bold, Day was never loved of lovers. Night for nightingales and moonlight! Many a blush night's mantle covers. Night for kissing, night for loving, Night for us, for we are lovers! Ivy. What singers be these? Green. A shepherd and his lass. Ivy. I know a better song than that. It goes this way: [Sings.] Night and day let us be merry, And set not by the world a cherry; For dry bread chokes---- That's not right. I forget it. I could make a better song than either myself; by my soul, I could! None of your sheepish love-songs, but a song to make the stars dance quicker, and the moon multiply itself a score of times. You have only made two moons. Celio. We did not aim at putting the moon beside herself. Ivy. I could make a song about the moon. Sir, I have read about the moon. Her name--hic!--her name is--hic!---- Celio. Hecate. Ivy. Give a man time to speak his mind. Her name is Hecate, although you say it. I know about the moon: Hecate is the moon--Hecate. Sylvia. O, come away! Celio. Make your song, my friend, and show it to me to-morrow. Ivy. I will, sir; I will. Celio. Good-night. [Celio and Sylvia go out. Ivy. The song is coming, Green; it's coming. 'By the light of Hecate's lamp'--lamp, lamp--what rhymes with lamp?--Come to some more delusive, poetic spot.--'By the light of Hecate's lamp'--lamp?--Come.--What the devil rhymes with lamp!--Come. [Ivy and Green go out. Enter hurriedly Cinthio, and Faustine dressed as a shepherd-boy.