_Orsi._ Is safe, is well,
And hopes ere long to see her sire once more
Adorned, with regal pomp, and lord of Burgos.

_Alfon._ Alas! vain hope.

_Orsi._ Not so: thy faithful nobles,
By me apprized, now haste to give thee succour.
Ere night, Caesario falls; and piercing his,
Thy just revenge shall print a mortal wound
On his proud father's heart.

_Alfon._ His father's?

_Orsi._ Ay,
On his, who paid thy love this morn with curses,
Spurning thy proffered friendship--Know'st thou not
Caesario is Orsino's son?

_Alfon._ Just Heaven!
And does Orsino love him?

_Orsi._ Dearly, dearly,
Loves him to madness; loves him with like fury.
As hates he thee.--Oh! glorious field for vengeance:
Think how 'twill writhe his haughty soul to hear,
This son, this darling, perished on the scaffold,
Branded, disgraced, a traitor, a foiled traitor.
Joy, joy, Alfonso; ere 'tis night thy wrath
Shall gorge itself with blood.

_Alfon._ Now blessings on thee,
Who giv'st me more than all my foes can take.
Come, come, my friend; where are these troops? Away,
Forward to Burgos.

_Orsi._ (_Detaining him._) Whither now?

_Alfon._ To Burgos.
Down with the walls: make once Caesario mine--

_Orsi._ And then----?

_Alfon._ I'll seek his father, grasp his hand,
And say,--"This stripling stole my darling daughter,
Betrayed my confidence, usurped my throne,
Aimed at my life, and almost broke my heart:
But he's Orsino's son; Orsino loves him,
And all's forgiven."----(Orsino _kneels, takes the
king's hand, and presses it to his lips._)--How now?

_Orsi._ (_Raising his vizor._) All is forgiven.

_Alfon._ 'Tis he:--Orsino's self.

_Orsi._ My pride is vanquished:
My king--Thy hand, my king.

_Alfon._ My heart, my heart;
There find thy place, and never leave it more.
Oh, from my joy again to name thee friend,
Judge of my grief to think thou wert my foe;
How could I doubt thee? how commit an error
So gross.

_Orsi._ No more; e'en now thou pay'st its penance:
In this long chain of present woes, that error
(Which seems at first so light) was the first link.
It tore me from my son: else, reared by me,
Formed in thy court, and schooled by my example,
My son must sure have proved thy truest subject,
Oh! learn from this, how weighty is the charge,
A monarch bears; how nice a task to guide
His power aright, to guide it wrong, how fatal.
If subjects sin, with them the crime remains,
With them the penance; but when monarchs err,
The mis