to_
_the sound of an organ, boys' voices are chanting the
service of the Mass._

_Cesario, Gamba the Fool, Guards, Populace._

_Cesario._ Way there! Give room! The Regent comes from Mass.
Guards, butt them on the toes--way there! give room!
Prick me that laggard's leg-importunate fools!

_Guards._ Room for the Regent! Room!

[_The sacring bell rings within the Chapel._

_Cesario._ Hark there, the bell!

[_A pause. Men of the crowd take off their caps._

Could ye not leave, this day of all the year,
Your silly suits, petitions, quarrels, pleas?
Could ye not leave, this once in seven years,
Our Lady to come holy-quiet from Mass.
Lean on the wall, and loose her cage-bird heart,
To lift and breast and dance upon the breeze.
Draws home her lord the Duke?

_Crowd._ Long live the Duke!

_Cesario._ The devil, then! Why darken his approach?

_Gamba (from the bench where he has been mending his
viol)._ Because, Captain, 'tis a property knaves
and fools have in common--to stand in their own
light, as 'tis of soldiers to talk bad logic. That
knave, now--he with the red nose and the black
eye--the Duke's colours, loyal man!--you clap
an iron on his leg, and ask him why he is not
down in the city, hanging them out of window!
Go to: you are a soldier!

_Cesario._ And you a Fool, and on your own showing
stand in your own light.

_Gamba._ Nay, neither in my own light, nor as a
Fool. So should myself stand between the sun
and my shadow; whereas I am not myself--these
seven years have I been but the shadow of a
Fool. Yet one must tune up for the Duke.

_(Strikes his viol and sings.)_

"Bird of the South, my Rondinello----"

Flat-Flat!

_Cesario (calling up to watchman on the Chapel roof)._ Ho there! What news?

_A Voice._ Captain, no sail!

_Cesario._ Where sits
The wind?

_Voice._ Nor' west, and north a point!

_Cesario._ Perchance
They have down'd sail and creep around the flats.

_Gamba (tuning his viol)._ Flats, flats! the straight horizon, and the life
These seven years laid by rule! The curst canal
Drawn level through the drawn-out level sand
And thistle-tufts that stink as soon as pluck'd!
Give me the hot crag and the dancing heat,
Give me the Abruzzi, and the cushioned thyme--
Brooks at my feet, high glittering snows above.
What were thy music, viol, without a ridge?

[_Noise of commotion in the city belo