Knowest thou the land
  With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—
  Miraculously found by one of Genoa—
  A thousand leagues within the golden west? A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
  Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe
  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
  In days that are to come? Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou
  Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou
  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be mine, for I will live
  For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be
  No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys
  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
  My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage,
  Fly thither with me? Lal. A deed is to be done—
  Castiglione lives! Pol. And he shall die! (exit)
      Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die!—alas! Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian! Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian! I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look,
  Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
  With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me! And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,
  To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,
  To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate
  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone—
  O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me! And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone
  Gone—gone. Where am I?—’tis well—’tis very well! So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,
  ’Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas! V.
                 The suburbs. Politian alone. Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
  And much I fear me ill—it will not do
  To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay thy hand,
  O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers
  Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me! O pity me! let me not perish now,
  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! Give me to live yet—yet a little while:
  ’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late
  Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count? Enter Baldazzar. Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
  Between the Earl Politian and himself. He doth decline your cartel. Pol. What didst thou say? What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar? With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
  Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,
  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
  No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count? Bal. That he, Castiglione’ not being aware
  Of any feud existing, or any cause
  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
  Cannot accept the challenge. Pol. It is most true—
  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
  A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free
  From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say? Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
  The Count Castiglione will not fight,
  Having no cause for quarrel. Pol. Now this is true—
  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
  And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me
  A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
  Hold him a villain?—thus much, I prythee, say
  Unto the Count—it is exceeding just
  He should have cause for quarrel. Bal. My lord!—my friend!—
      Pol. (aside.) ’Tis he!—he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest
  well. I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—
  Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it. Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person
  With whom affairs of a most private nature
  I would adjust. Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet,
  Do we not?—at the Vatican. Pol. At the Vatican. (exit
  Bal.) Enter Castigilone. Cas. The Earl of Leicester here! Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
  Dost thou not? that I am here. Cas. My lord, some strange,
  Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—
  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
  Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right? ’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all
  Do err at times. Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more! Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,
  Proud Earl! (draws.) Pol. (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
  In the name of Lalage! Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
  stage)
                      Of Lalage! Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say! Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not. Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count? Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well;
  Didst say thou darest not? Ha! Cas. I dare not—dare not—
  Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name
  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—
  I cannot—dare not. Pol. Now by my halidom
  I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee! Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be! (clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose
  is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
  the Earl)
                             Alas! my lord,
  It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
  I am the veriest coward. O pity me! Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee. Cas. And Lalage—
      Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die! Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die
  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
  That in this deep humiliation I perish. For in the fight I will not raise a hand
  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—
                                                     (baring his bosom.) Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—
  Strike home. I will not fight thee. Pol. Now, s’ Death and Hell! Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted
  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,
  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
  For public insult in the streets—before
  The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee
  Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee
  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—
  Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee,
  Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me? Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit.) Cas. Now this indeed is just! Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven! {In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29. —ED}

      NOTE

      29.