I prize not Henri--for a breath, a nod, Can make him mine for ever. _One_ I prize Whose pulse ne'er quickened at my step or voice, Who cares no more for smile from Victorine, Whom princes sue--than Victorine for them. But he _shall_ love me--ay, and when he too Lies pleading at my feet!--I make no doubt But I shall weary of mine idle whim, And rate him well for daring to be there! ROS.--Please you, my lady, who is this new victim? VIC.--Whom think you, Rosalinde? Eugene Legard! the brave young captain--lover of Carille--betrothed to her--about to marry her! ROS.--But who's Carille, my lady? VIC.--(_Impatiently_.) Now know you not the youthful village belle whose face my gallant cousin raves about? I would he'd wed the girl, and leave Legard and me _as free_, to wed! (_Enter the Count._) What, torment! here again! (_Exit Rosalinde._) COUNT HENRI.--Where should I be, sweet coz? I love the sunshine! VIC.--So love you not this room--for here the sun ne'er shines. COUNT.--The sun--_my_ sun is smiling on me now! VIC.--Oh, don't! I'm so tired of all that! COUNT.--Lady, it shall not weary you again; I've borne your light caprice too long already. For the last time I come to ask of you, madam, Is it your pleasure we fulfil at once your father's last injunction? VIC.--Ah! but this isn't the _last_ time, Henri; I'll wager you this hand with my heart in it, you will ask me the same question a dozen times yet ere you die. COUNT.--I'll not gainsay you, lady; time will show. (_A short pause._) Yet, by my sword, if such your wager be, I will be dumb till doomsday. VIC.--Then book the bet! and claim my heart and hand--(_she pauses--he waits in eager hope_)--on--doomsday morning, cousin! COUNT.--I claim thee now or never! VIC.--If they only hadn't said we _must_, Henri! COUNT.--Pshaw! VIC.--Beside, all the world _expects_ it you know; I do so hate to fulfil people's expectations: it is so commonplace and humdrum! COUNT.--Depend upon it, Lady Victorine, nobody ever expected you to do any thing reasonable or commonplace or humdrum! (_He Sings._) Archly on thy cheek, Worth a god's imprinting, Starry dimples speak, Rich with rosy tinting,-- What a pity, love, Anger's burning flushes E'er should rise above Those bewitching blushes! Warm thy lip doth glow, With such lovely color, Ruby's heart would show Hues of beauty duller,-- What a shame, the while, Scorn should ever curl it, And o'ercast the smile That should still enfurl it! Soft thy dark eye beams, With the star-night's splendor, Now with joy it gleams, Now with tears 'tis tender,-- Ah! what pain to feel, Ere another minute, Passion's fire may steal All the softness in it! VIC.--There! you CAN _sing_! I'll give the----hem!--his due. I only wish you could make love as well as you make verses. COUNT.--And how should I make love?