_F._ Having your secret, I must give you mine. I also love a lady in the court, Secretly too, as you, though with success; And she is foster-sister to your lady. The prudery with which the Countess rules Drave us to hide our liking at the first; And as that grew, deception still kept pace, Enhancing the romance of our delight With stolen intercourse. But these last days A cloud hath risen: for the lady’s father, 160 (That’s the old major-domo, whom I spoke of,) Hath been befooled to give his daughter away To a wreathed ass, a cousin of the Countess, Who hath herself approved the match. You find me In this dilemma, whether to confess My love for Laura,—that’s the lady’s name— Braving the Countess’anger, or carry her off, And after sue for favour. (_Music heard._) Hark! here they come. I’ll tell you more hereafter. _R._ Ay, do: but now Forget not me. (_Aside._) By Jove, he has capped my story.— 170 Diana’s sister too: and I entrapped To aid in her elopement. _Enter Diana, Laura, Gregory, and St. Nicholas; with attendant musicians and singers, who go out when the music is done._ _MUSIC._ Fire of heaven, whose starry arrow Pierces the veil of timeless night: Molten spheres, whose tempests narrow Their floods to a beam of gentle light, To charm with a moonray quenched from fire The land of delight, the land of desire. _F._ (_to R._). That is the major-domo Gregory 179 With the white locks. Take him aside, he is deaf. (_During next verse R. makes his way to G., and they are seen talking aside during the other dialogue._) _Music continued_— Smile of love—a flower planted, Sprung in the garden of joy that art: Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted, Whose spreading fires encircle my heart, And warm with a noonray drenched in fire My land of delight, my land of desire! _DIANA._ I envy much the melancholy spirit Who wove that strain. The verses too were fetched Out of a deeper well than common passion Hath skill to draw from. Frederick, who is the poet That I must love for this? _F._ Love for my art 191 Hath made your ladyship too generous Towards a most humble workman. ’Tis my own. _D._ Ah me! what must it be to be a poet, And in the abandoned humour that men take with, To give forth! O ’tis godlike! but the music,— ’Tis that you excel in: it hath a melancholy Which springs of love. _F._ The whole world sprang of love; And art is but the praise the creature makes To the Creator. _D._ True: and the best praise 200 Is but love’s echo. I mean you love some lady. She is very happy. Would I knew her name. _F._ When I shall love a lady, and have means To court her, you shall hear gay music. _D._ Means! Is she so mercenary?