LUCA. He must be a poor-souled lad if he will wait till thou hast earned a dowry. FIAMETTA. A poor-souled lad! my good Vicenzo--ah! but no matter; thou knowest him, Luca, my Lord Lorenzo's page. There!--is he poor, or mean, or plain, or dull? He claims no dowry, he--but I have my pride, as well as the great ones. LUCA. May the saints preserve thee from such as theirs! I am heartily glad of thy good fortune. I am not sure whether thou or Lady Marie-Rosa be the most favored. Well, the end proves all. [Exeunt.] Enter on one side ANNICCA and DON TOMMASO, attired for the ball; on the other side, RIBERA. RIBERA. What do ye here, my children? Haste away! Maria waits you for the ball; folk say 'T will be the bravest show e'er seen in Naples. I warrant you the Spagnoletto brings The richest jewels--what say'st thou, my son? DON TOMMASO. I who have robbed you of one gem, need scarce Re-word, sir, how I prize it. RIBERA. Why, 't is true. Robbed me, thou sayst? So hast thou. She was mine-- The balanced beauty of her flesh and spirit, That was my garland, and I was her all, Till thou, a stranger, stole her heart's allegiance, Suborned--Forgive me, I am old, a father, Whose doting passions blind. I am not jealous, Believe me, sir. When we Riberas give, We give without retraction or reserve, Were it our life-blood. I rejoice with thee That she is thine; nor am I quite bereft, I have some treasure still. I do repent So heartily of my discourteous speech, That I will crave your leave before I kiss Your wife's soft palm. ANNICCA (kissing him repeatedly). Why, father, what is this? Can Don Tommaso's wife so soon forget She is the Spagnoletto's child? RIBERA. Enough. I can bear praise, thou knowest, from all save thee And my Maria. My grave son, I fear, Will mock these transports. Pray go in with me. No one of us but has this night a triumph. Let us make ready. [Exeunt.] ACT II. SCENE I. Ball in the Palace of DON JOHN. Dance. DON JOHN and MARIA together. DON TOMMASO, ANNICCA. LORDS and LADIES, dancing or promenading. 1st LORD. Were it not better to withdraw awhile, After our dance, unto the torch-lit gardens? The air is fresh and sweet without. 1st LADY. Nay, signor. I like this heavy air, rich with warm odors, The broad, clear light, the many-colored throng. I might have breathed on mine own balcony The evening breeze. 1st LORD. Still at cross purposes. When will you cease to flout me?