_Cas._ Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer, and a man shut out From common passions. _Di Brog._ Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear Politian was a _melancholy_ man? (_Exeunt._) II ROME.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. _Lalage._ Jacinta! is it thou? _Jacinta_ (_pertly_). Yes, ma’am, I’m here. _Lal._ I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you— Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble. _Jac._ (_aside_). ’Tis time. (_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read._) _Lal._ “It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!” (_pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes._) “No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower— But Ocean ever to refresh mankind Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.” Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how like To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!—the maiden died! O still more happy maiden who couldst die! Jacinta! (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes._) Again!—a similar tale Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play— “She died full young”—one Bossola answers him— “I think not so—her infelicity Seemed to have years too many”—Ah, luckless lady! Jacinta! (_still no answer_). Here’s a far sterner story— But like—oh, very like in its despair— Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand hearts—losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids Lean over her and weep—two gentle maids With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion! Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta! _Jac._ (_pettishly_). Madam, what _is_ it? _Lal._ Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind As go down in the library and bring me The Holy Evangelists? _Jac._ Pshaw! (_Exit._) _Lal._ If there be balm For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there! Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.” (_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table._) _Jac._ There, ma’am, ’s the book. (_aside._) Indeed she is very troublesome.