FOOL A full dozen at cock-crow, and something less under the dog-star, by reason of the dew, which lies heavy on men taken by the scurvy. LUC. [To FIRST APP.] Methinks the Fool is a fool. FOOL And therefore, by auricular deduction, am I own twin to the Lady Lucrezia! [Sings.] When pears hang green on the garden wall With a nid, and a nod, and a niddy-niddy-o Then prank you, lads and lasses all, With a yea and a nay and a niddy-o. But when the thrush flies out o’ the frost With a nid, [etc.] ‘Tis time for loons to count the cost, With a yea [etc.] [Enter the PORTER.] PORTER O my dear Mistress, there is one below Demanding to have instant word of thee. I told him that your Ladyship was not At home. Vain perjury! He would not take Nay for an answer. LUC. Ah? What manner of man Is he? PORTER A personage the like of whom Is wholly unfamiliar to my gaze. Cowl’d is he, but I saw his great eyes glare From their deep sockets in such wise as leopards Glare from their caverns, crouching ere they spring On their reluctant prey. LUC. And what name gave he? PORTER [After a pause.] Something-arola. LUC. Savon-? [PORTER nods.] Show him up. [Exit PORTER.] FOOL If he be right astronomically, Mistress, then is he the greater dunce in respect of true learning, the which goes by the globe. Argal, ‘twere better he widened his wind-pipe. [Sings.] Fly home, sweet self, Nothing’s for weeping, Hemp was not made For lovers’ keeping, Lovers’ keeping, Cheerly, cheerly, fly away. Hew no more wood While ash is glowing, The longest grass Is lovers’ mowing, Lovers’ mowing, Cheerly, [etc.] [Re-enter PORTER, followed by SAV. Exeunt PORTER, FOOL, and FIRST and SECOND APPS.] SAV. I am no more a monk, I am a man O’ the world. [Throws off cowl and frock, and stands forth in the costume of a Renaissance nobleman. LUCREZIA looks him up and down.] LUC. Thou cutst a sorry figure. SAV. That Is neither here nor there. I love you, Madam. LUC. And this, methinks, is neither there nor here, For that my love of thee hath vanished, Seeing thee thus beprankt. Go pad thy calves! Thus mightst thou, just conceivably, with luck, Capture the fancy of some serving-wench. SAV. And this is all thou hast to say to me? LUC. It is. SAV. I am dismiss’d? LUC. Thou art. SAV. ‘Tis well. [Resumes frock and cowl.] Savonarola is himself once more. LUC. And all my love for him returns to me A thousandfold!