Could ye not leave, this day of all the year, Your silly suits, petitions, quarrels, pleas? Could ye not leave, this once in seven years, Our Lady to come holy-quiet from Mass. Lean on the wall, and loose her cage-bird heart, To lift and breast and dance upon the breeze. Draws home her lord the Duke? _Crowd._ Long live the Duke! _Cesario._ The devil, then! Why darken his approach? _Gamba (from the bench where he has been mending his viol)._ Because, Captain, 'tis a property knaves and fools have in common--to stand in their own light, as 'tis of soldiers to talk bad logic. That knave, now--he with the red nose and the black eye--the Duke's colours, loyal man!--you clap an iron on his leg, and ask him why he is not down in the city, hanging them out of window! Go to: you are a soldier! _Cesario._ And you a Fool, and on your own showing stand in your own light. _Gamba._ Nay, neither in my own light, nor as a Fool. So should myself stand between the sun and my shadow; whereas I am not myself--these seven years have I been but the shadow of a Fool. Yet one must tune up for the Duke. _(Strikes his viol and sings.)_ "Bird of the South, my Rondinello----" Flat-Flat! _Cesario (calling up to watchman on the Chapel roof)._ Ho there! What news? _A Voice._ Captain, no sail! _Cesario._ Where sits The wind? _Voice._ Nor' west, and north a point! _Cesario._ Perchance They have down'd sail and creep around the flats. _Gamba (tuning his viol)._ Flats, flats! the straight horizon, and the life These seven years laid by rule! The curst canal Drawn level through the drawn-out level sand And thistle-tufts that stink as soon as pluck'd! Give me the hot crag and the dancing heat, Give me the Abruzzi, and the cushioned thyme-- Brooks at my feet, high glittering snows above. What were thy music, viol, without a ridge? [_Noise of commotion in the city below._ _Cesario_. Watchman, what news? _A Voice_. Sir, on the sea no sail! _One of the Crowd_. But through the town below a horseman spurs-- I think, Count Lucio! Yes--Count Lucio! He nears, draws rein, dismounts! _Cesario_. Sure, he brings news. _Gamba_. I think he brings word the Duke is sick; his loyal folk have drunk so much of his health. [_A murmur has been growing in the town below. It breaks into cheers as Count Lucio comes springing up to the terrace._ _Enter Lucio._ _Lucio._ News! Where's the Regent? Eh? is Mass not said? Cesario, news! I rode across the dunes; A pilot--Nestore--you know the man-- Came panting. Sixteen sail beyond the point! That's not a galley lost! _Crowd._ Long live the Duke! _Lucio._ Hark to the tocsin! I have carried fire-- Wildfire! Why, where's my sister? I've a mind-- [_He strides towards the door of the Chapel; but pauses at the sound of chanting within, and comes back to Cesario._