Plays and poems: by George H. Boker.

THIE BETROTHAL. 67
Marq. You are strangely moved.
Mar. M}oved strangely, sir, by a most strange
device.'Twere better, till I'm fairly bound, at least —
Until my honor cannot'scape her pranks -
That she - Costanza, sir, - your daughter, sir, -
Showed more regard to common decency!
March. What is all this?
Mairq. Our sweet son, Marsio,
Gives us an inkling of his filial love!
Mar. Ne'er sneer at me, sir, - never sneer at me!
Marq. I am talking to this lady.
March. Pray be calm. [apart to MARsIo.]
If signore Marsio has been well informed,
He has just cause to take offence.
Marq. Gods! madam -
March. Here comes Costanza: she can set us
right.
Marq. No; she can set you wrong, - can show
how basely
You slander purity!
(Enter COSTANZA.)
March. You have been walking?
Costanza. Yes. - Good-day, signore Marsio I
March. Alone?
Cos. O, no! 0, no I There was one little bird
Followed me strangely on, from tree to tree,
Measuring his lagging flight by my slow steps,
As if he sought to keep me company;
And when I paused a moment, he would hop,
In open view, upon the nearest spray,
And pour into my ears such moving notes -
So melancholy, yet so sweet withal —