Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome, If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy Who danced with her at Cordova. Vict. They quarrelled, And so the matter ended. Hyp. But in truth Thou wilt not marry her. Vict. In truth I will. The angels sang in heaven when she was born! She is a precious jewel I have found Among the filth and rubbish of the world. I'll stoop for it; but when I wear it here, Set on my forehead like the morning star, The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 'T will be indeed a wonder. Vict. Out upon thee With thy unseasonable jests! Pray tell me, Is there no virtue in the world? Hyp. Not much. What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment; Now, while we speak of her? Vict. She lies asleep, And from her parted lips her gentle breath Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, Like a light barge safe moored. Hyp. Which means, in prose, She's sleeping with her mouth a little open! Vict. O, would I had the old magician's glass To see her as she lies in childlike sleep! Hyp. And wouldst thou venture? Vict. Ay, indeed I would! Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected How much lies hidden in that one word, NOW? Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life! I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, That could we, by some spell of magic, change The world and its inhabitants to stone, In the same attitudes they now are in, What fearful glances downward might we cast Into the hollow chasms of human life! What groups should we behold about the death-bed, Putting to shame the group of Niobe! What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! What stony tears in those congealed eyes! What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows! What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! What lovers with their marble lips together! Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love, That is the very point I most should dread. This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, Might tell a tale were better left untold. For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, The Lady Violante, bathed in tears Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, Desertest for this Glauce. Vict. Hold thy peace! She cares not for me. She may wed another, Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. Hyp. (rising). And so, good night! Good morning, I should say. (Clock strikes three.)