SCENE I.--A Road.

Enter Felice, Bruno and Scipio.

Scipio. Yonder he is, puzzling over a paper. Neither of your lordships knows him? Felice. No. Scipio. It is no wonder. Since he fell in love he affects a kind of bearish melancholy; secludes himself; feeds his passion on fish, and has gross dreams. It will take some angling to catch him, gudgeon and all as he is.

Enter Torello.

Good-day, sir. Torello. Oh!--good-day. Scipio. Here are two gentlemen of the Prince's court, who, their ears being infected with your absolute accomplishments, have been plagued by the unsatisfied desire of your acquaintance. Torello. It is not the first time I have plagued my acquaintance. Gentlemen, who are you? Felice. Felice is my name; my title, lord; my having, handsome; and my expectation, great. Torello. O sir, my name is Torello; my figure is at least as handsome as yours; and my expectation is high and sure.--Your name, sir? Bruno. My figure is as God made it; and my expectation ends in salvation. Torello. Mine ends in matrimony. Felice. You are he who loves Eulalie. Torello. Here is a copy of verses, a sonnet to her. Will you read it? It will tell you. Felice. Are they yours? Did you write them? Torello. I scratched them down this morning. Felice [reading]. My sweetest sweeting, once again I say With no adornment, simply, 'I love you.' You ask me for a mint of words mayhap: I give you none save these, 'I do love you,' In which is melted all my passion's gold. Many a white plain have I deluged black With overflowing, wordy, rhyming streams; But I have found them all too weak, and so I simply say and mean, 'I do love you.' This is excellent. You ask me why no tears bedim my eyes: I answer, I have drained them dry already. Better still. You ask me why my cheek so rosy is: I answer, that I keep my health for you. O, admirable! This cannot fail to win her. Scipio [aside]. He may have written it after all. Torello. I will send it to her along with this string of pearls. Scipio. If I might interest myself so far in your lordship's affairs, I would suggest that, having thus engaged the services of Plutus and Apollo, you now enlist under your love's flag the potent Hecate. Torello. Ah! I shall consider your counsel. Felice. It is good counsel. Torello. Who's this Hecate? Felice. She is a sorceress, and has her haunt in the wood. She will tell you how you are to discover that you are to marry Eulalie; and this certain knowledge of futurity, stranded with the verses and the necklace, will form a cable that draws her into your arms. Torello. Into my arms! Let us visit Hecate at once. Felice. It is too soon. She will not be approached till the moon is up. Torello. Then come with me, and you shall see Eulalie. But, look you, I will not make her known to you. [Aside.] She knows too many men already. Felice. It needs not: we will know her by her beauty. Torello. Ay; but you must not speak to her. Felice. How if she speak to us? Torello. Then must you be short in your answers, and by no means attempt to gain her favour; I would have her favour no man but me. Felice. Fear not us. Courtiers know how to behave, and fishermen's daughters are excellent wenches. Torello. They are most sweet wenches. Eulalie is a most sweet fisherman's wench. Felice. How was he sweet? Did he do business in fresh water only? Torello. What, he? You start from our subject. Come on, come on. [Bruno and Torello go out. Felice. It will work, I think. Scipio. Assuredly. I know where to get such rig as will pass for a witch's. Bring him along to the place you wot of, and let chance guide our sport. [They go out.