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?

1st LADY.
When I prize
A lover's sigh more dear than mine own pleasure.
See, the Signora Julia passed again.
She is far too pale for so much white, I find.
Donna Aurora—ah, how beautiful!
That spreading ruff, sprinkled with seeds of gold,
Becomes her well. Would you believe it, sir,
Folk say her face is twin to mine—what think you?

1st LORD.
For me, the huge earth holds but one such face.
You know it well.

1St LADY.
The hall is overfilled;
Go we without.
[They pass on.]

2d LADY.
Thrice he hath danced with her.
She is not one of us—her face is strange;
Colored and carven to meet most men's desire—
Is't not, my lord? Certes, it loses naught
For lack of ornament. Pray, ask her name,
If but for my sake.

2d LORD.
I have already asked.
She is the daughter to the Spagnoletto,
Maria-Rosa.

2d LADY.
Ah, I might have guessed.
The form and face are matched with the apparel,
As in a picture. 'T was the master's hand,
I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art,
Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearls
Within her odd, bright hair.
[They pass on.]

DON JOHN.
Now hope, now fear
Reigned lord of my wild dreams. One name still sang
Like the repeated strain of some caged bird,
Its sweet, persistent music through my brain.
One vanishing face upon the empty air
Shone forth and faded night and day. And you,
Did you not find me hasty, over-bold?
Nay, tell me all your thought.

MARIA.
You know, my lord,
I am no courtier, and belike my thought
Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.

DON JOHN.
Speak on, speak on!
Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing
Rebeck and mandoline.

MARIA.
Is it not strange?
I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed,
If only from the simple garb of black,
And golden collar, 'midst the motley hues
Of our gay nobles. I know not what besides,
But this first won me. Be not angered, sir;
But, as I looked, I never ranked you higher
Than simple gentleman. I asked your name;
Then, when you Highness stooped to pick my flower,
My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor,
For it had fain discrowned you.

DON JOHN.
May God's angels
Reward such treason. Say me those words again.
Let the rich blush born of that dear confession
Again dye cheek and brow, and fade and melt
Forever, even as then.

MARIA.
We are watched, my lord.
This is no place, no hour, for words like these.

DON JOHN.
When, where then, may we meet?
[They pass on.]