_Nita._—And for that you expect me to linger! as though vows were new to my ears, and words of love as strange to my understanding as tropical birds to the eyes of a Norseman. _Martino._—If you do love me, you will linger. _Nita._—Yet if I do, (_Slowly advancing_) be assured it is from some other motive than love. _Martino._—So it be not from hate I am contented. _Nita._—To be contented with little, proves you a man of much virtue. _Martino._—When I have you, I am contented with much. _Nita._—That _when_ is a wise insertion, signior; it saves you from shame and me from anger.—Hark! some one calls. _Martino._—None other but the wind; it is a kindly breeze, and grieves to hear how harsh a pretty maiden can be to the lover who adores her. _Nita._—Please your worship, I do not own a lover. _Martino._—Then mend your poverty, and accept one. _Nita._—I am no beggar to accept of alms. _Martino._—In this case, he who offers is the beggar. _Nita._—I am too young to wear a jewel of so much pretension. _Martino._—Time is a cure for youth, and marriage a happy speeder of time. _Nita._—But youth needs no cure, and if marriage speedeth time, I’ll live a maid and die one. The days run swift enough without goading, Signior Martino. _Martino._—But lady— _Nita._.—Nay, your tongue will outstrip time, if you put not a curb upon it. In faith, signior, I would not seem rude, but if in your courtesy you would consent to woo some other maiden to-day, why I would strive and bear it. _Martino._—When I stoop to woo any other lady than thee, the moon shall hide its face from the earth, and shine upon it no more. _Nita._—Your thoughts are daring in their flight to-day. _Martino._—They are in search of your love. _Nita._—Alack, your wings will fail. _Martino._—Ay, when they reach their goal. _Nita._—Dost think to reach it? _Martino._—Shall I not, lady? _Nita._—’Tis hard to believe it possible, yet who can tell? You are not so handsome, signior, that one would die for you. _Martino._—No, lady; but what goes to make other men’s faces fair, goes to make my heart great. The virtue of my manhood rests in the fact that I love you. _Nita._—Faith! so in some others. ’Tis the common fault of the gallants, I find. If that is all— _Martino._—But I will always love you, even unto death. _Nita._—I doubt it not, so death come soon enough. _Martino._ (_Taps his poiniard with his hand._)—Would you have it come now, and so prove me true to my word? _Nita._ (_Demurely_).—I am no judge, to utter the doom that your presumption merits. _Martino._—Your looks speak doom, and your sweet lips hide a sword keener than that of justice.