_Cel._ Well, I might answer, that, far off or near, Hearing or not the melody you tell of, The man is mad who dances to it. But Here is your music.
_Porcia._ I left my brother here but now.
_Prince._ But now, Sweet Porcia, you see he is not here— By that so seeming earnest search for him Scarce recognising me, if you would hint At any seeming slight of mine toward you, I plead not guilty—
_Por._ You mistake, my lord— Did I believe my recognition Of any moment to your Excellency, I might perhaps evince it in complaint, But not in slight.
_Prince._ Complaint of what? I knowing, Porcia, And you too knowing well, the constant love That I have borne you since the happy day When first we met in Naples—
_Por._ No, my lord— You mean my love to you, not yours to me— Unwearied through your long forgetful absence.
_Prince._ How easily, Porcia, would my love Prove to you its unchanged integrity, Were it not that our friends—
_Por._ Your friends indeed, Who stop a lame apology at the outset.
_Serafina._ I cannot rest, Porcia, and am come To seek it in your arms—but who is this?
_Ser._ Pardon me, my lord— I knew you not—coming so hurriedly, And in much perturbation.
_Prince._ Nay, lady, I owe you thanks for an embarrassment Which hides my own.
_Ser._ Let it excuse beside What other courtesies I owe your Highness, But scarce have words to pay. Heaven guard your Highness— Suffer me to retire.
_Por._ I needs must after her, my lord. But tell me, When shall I hear your vindication?— To-night?
_Prince._ Farewell.—Celio, Didst ever see so fair an apparition, As her who came and went so suddenly?
_Cel._ Indeed, so sweetly manner’d when surprised, She must be exquisite in her composure.
_Cel._ Nay, my lord, just come with you, I know as little— What! a new tune to dance to?—
_Prince._ In good time, Here comes Alvaro.
_Alvaro._ How restless is the sickness of the soul! I scarce had got me from this fatal place, And back again—
_Prince._ Who is the lady that was here anon?
_Prince._ She that went A moment hence—I mean your sister’s guest.
_Alv._ (This drop was wanting!) My lord, the daughter of a nobleman Of very ancient blood— Don Pedro Castellano.
_Alv._ (_aside_). Would I had never done so!
_Prince._ And in the hasty glimpse I had, I guess her mistress of as fair a mind As face.