Count Alarcos; a Tragedy. Earl of Beaconsfield Benjamin Disraeli

Count Alarcos; a Tragedy - Earl of Beaconsfield Benjamin Disraeli


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LEON.

       All ladies have.

       And yet as little of the fainting mood

       As one could fix on—

       I:2:64 ALAR.

       Mendola left treasure?

       I:2:65 SIDO.

       Wedges of gold, a chamber of sequins

       Sealed up for ages, flocks of Barbary sheep

       Might ransom princes, tapestry so rare

       The King straight purchased, covering for the price

       Each piece with pistoles.

       I:2:66 COUN.

       Is she very fair

       I:2:67 LEON.

       As future queens must ever be, and yet

       Her face might charm uncrowned.

       I:2:68 COUN.

       It grieves me much

       To hear the Prince departs. ’Tis not the first

       Among her suitors

       I:2:69 ALAR.

       Your good uncle lives—

       Nunez de Leon?

       I:2:70 LEON.

       To my cost, Alarcos;

       He owes me much.

       I:2:71 SIDO.

       Some promises his heir

       Would wish fulfilled.

       I:2:72 COUN.

       In Gascony, they said,

       Navarre had sought her hand.

       I:2:73 LEON.

       He loitered here

       But could not pluck the fruit: it was too high.

       Sidonia threw him in a tilt one day.

       The Infanta has her fancies; unhorsed knights

       Count not among them.

       [Enter a CHAMBERLAIN who whispers COUNT ALARCOS.]

       I:2:74 ALAR.

       Urgent, and me alone

       Will commune with! A Page! Kind guests, your pardon,

       I’ll find you here anon. My Florimonde,

       Our friends will not desert you, like your spouse.

       [Exit ALARCOS.]

       I:2:75 COUN.

       My Lords, will see our gardens?

       I:2:76 SIDO.

       We are favoured.

       We wait upon your steps.

       I:2:77 LEON.

       And feel that roses

       Will spring beneath them.

       I:2:78 COUN.

       You are an adept, sir,

       In our gay science.

       I:2:79 LEON.

       Faith, I stole it, lady,

       From a loose Troubadour Sidonia keeps

       To write his sonnets.

       [Exeunt omnes.]

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