that one man stole all.
My curse be on him!

_Caesa._ Man, thy curse is heard.

_Orsi._ Is heard! What mean'st thou?

_Caesa._ Vengeance! Hark, Orsino--
Soon as my mother died (believed Caesario
A young unknown) I sought the court, where chance
Gave me from ruffian Moors to save the princess.
This made Alfonso mine, and still I've used him
To further mine own ends. Joy, joy, my father!
My plots are ripe, the king's best troops corrupted,
His son, too, through my arts, declared a rebel;
And, ere two nights are past, I'll strip the tyrant
Both of his throne and life. Rouse then, and aid
----Now, sir, why gaze you thus?

_Orsi._ I fain would doubt it;
Fain find some plea--No, no, each look, each feature,
And my own heart----'Tis true thou art my son!

_Caesa._ What mean you?

_Orsi._ (_passionately_) Art my son, and yet a villain!

_Caesa._ (_starting_) Villain!

_Orsi._ Destroy Alfonso! What! Alfonso,
The wise, the good?

_Caesa._ With thee then was he either?
Has he not wronged thee?

_Orsi._ Deeply, boy, most deeply.
But in his whole wide kingdom none but me.
Look through Castile; see all smile, bloom, and flourish.
No peasant sleeps ere he has breathed a blessing
On his good king; no thirst of power, false pride,
Or martial rage he knows; nor would he shed
One drop of subject-blood to buy the title
Of a new Mars! E'en broken hearted widows
And childless mothers, while they weep the slain,
Cursing the wars, confess his cause was just.
Such is Alfonso, such the man whose virtues
Now fill thy throne, Castile, to bliss thy children!
What shows the adverse scale! What find we there?
_My_ sufferings, mine alone! And what am _I_,
That I should weigh me 'gainst the public welfare?
What are my wrongs against a monarch's rights?
What is my curse against a nation's blessings?

_Caesa._ Yet hear me.

_Orsi._ I assist your plots! I injure
One hair that's nourished with Alfonso's blood!
No! The wronged subject hates the ungrateful master;
But the world's friend must love the patriot king.

_Caesa._ Amazement! Can it be Orsino speaking?
'Tis some court minion sure, some tool of office,
Some threadbare muse pensioned to praise the throne;
This cannot be the man whose burning vengeance,
Whose fixed aversion----

_Or._ Boy, 'Tis fixed as ever.
Alfonso's sight, his name, his very goodness,
Forcing my praise, torture my soul to madness.
I hate him, hate him; but still own his virtues;
And though I hate, Oh