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Between the Earl Politian and himself,
Pol. What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
Bal. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Pol. It is most true—
Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
Pol. Now this is true—
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
Bal. My lord !—my friend!
Pol. (aside). T is 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, pr'ythee, 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.
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—
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
Pol. (greatly softened). Alas !—I do—indeed I pity thee.
Cos. And Lalage
Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die!
Cos. It needeth not be—thus—thus—oh, 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 'sdeath 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, I11 taunt thee, villain,—I 'll taunt
thee— Dost hear ?—with cowardice! Thou wilt not fight me? Thou liest! thou shalt ! [Exit.
Cos. Now this, indeed, is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH..
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind-tree?
* Private reasons—some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems—have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed verbatim, without alteration, from the original edition, the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
acknowledged E. A. F. His first publication, I believe,
was as early as 1827.—Ed.