Cesario. And what of that?

Lucio. Release!

Cesario. Release?

Lucio (mocking a chant within the Chapel). From priests and petticoats Deliver us, Good Lord!

Gamba (strikes a chord on viol).  AMEN!

Cesario. Count Lucio,
These seven years agone, when the Duke sailed,
You were a child—­a pretty, forward boy;
And I a young lieutenant of the Guard,
Burning to serve abroad.  But that day, rather,
I clenched my nails over an inward wound: 
For that a something manlier than my years—­
Look, bearing, what-not—­by the Duke not miss’d,
Condemned me to promotion:  I must bide
At home, command the Guard!  ’Tis an old hurt,
But scalded on my memory....  Well, they sailed! 
And from the terrace here, sick with self-pity,
Wrapped in my wrong, forgetful of devoir,
I watch’d them through a mist—­turned with a sob—­
Uptore my rooted sight—­
                         There, there she stood;
Her hand press’d to her girdle, where the babe
Stirred in her body while she gazed—­she gazed—­
But slowly back controlled her eyes, met mine;
So—­with how wan, how small, how brave a smile!—­
Reached me her hands to kiss ... 
                                O royal hands! 
What burdens since they have borne let Adria tell. 
But hear me swear by them, Count Lucio—­
Who slights our Regent throws his glove to me.

Lucio. Why, soothly, she’s my sister!

Cesario. ’But the court
Is dull?  No masques, few banquetings—­and prayers
Be long, and youth for pastime leaps the gate?’
Yet if the money husbanded on feasts
Have fed our soldiery against the Turk,
Year after year, and still the State not starved;
Was’t not well done?  And if, responsible
To God, and lonely, she has leaned on God
Too heavily for our patience, was’t not wise?—­
And well, though weary?

Lucio. I tell you, she’s my sister!

Cesario. Well, an you will, bridle on that.  Lord Lucio,
You named the Countess Fulvia.  To my sorrow,
Two hours ago I called on her and laid her
Under arrest.

Lucio. The devil!  For what?

Cesario. For that
A lady, whose lord keeps summer in the hills
To nurse a gouty foot, should penalize
His dutiful return by shutting doors
And hanging out a ladder made of rope,
Or prove its safety by rehearsing it
Upon a heavier man.

Lucio. I’ll go to her.  Oh, this is infamous!

Cesario. Nay, be advised: 
No hardship irks the lady, save to sit
At home and feed her sparrows; nor no worse
Annoy than from her balcony to spy
(Should the eye rove) a Switzer of the Guard
At post between her raspberry-canes, to watch
And fright the thrushes from forbidden fruit.

Lucio. Infamous! infamous!