s not take from you
To give to me; and I am most content
She told you that. I will go now. Farewell,
Mario!

MAR. Nay, we shall meet again, Beatrice!

Scene 4

[The ball-room of the palace at Fiori, raised place in back,
surmounted by two big chairs, for Lorenzo and Octavia to sit while
the dance goes on. Dais on one side, well down stage, in full sight
of the audience, for Mario and Bianca. As the curtain rises the
stage is empty except for Fidelio, who sits forlornly on the bottom
steps of the raised place in the back of the stage, his lute across
his knees, his head bowed upon it. Sound of laughter and
conversation, possibly rattling of dishes, off stage, evidently a
feast going on.]

LAU. [Off stage.] Be still, or I will heave a plate at you!

LUIGI. [Off stage.] Nay, gentle Laura, heave not the wedding-crockery,
At the wedding-guest! Behold me on my knees
To tell the world I love you like a fool!

LAU. Get up, you oaf! Or here's a platter of gravy
Will add the motley to your folly!

LUIGI. Hold her,
Some piteous fop, that liketh not to see
Fine linen smeared with goose! Oh, gracious Laura,
I never have seen a child sucking an orange
But I wished an orange, too. This wedding irks me
Because 'tis not mine own. Shall we be married
Tuesday or Wednesday?

LAU. Are you in earnest, Luigi?

LUIGI. Ay, that I am, if never I was before.

LAU. La, I am lost! I am a married woman!
Water!--Nay, wine will do! On Wednesday, then.
I'll have it as far off as possible.

[Enter from banquet-room Guido, Giovanni and Raffaele.]

GIO. Well met, Fidelio! Give us a song!

FID. Not I!

GUI. Why, is this? You, that are dripping with song
Weekdays, are dry of music for a wedding?

FID. I have a headache. Go and sit in a tree,
And make your own songs.

RAF. Nay, Fidelio.
String the sweet strings, man!

GIO. Strike the pretty strings!

GUI. Give us the silver strings!

FID. Nay then, I will that!

[He tears the strings off the lute and throws them in Guido's face.]

Here be the strings, my merry gentlemen!
Do you amuse yourselves with tying knots in them
And hanging one another!--I have a headache.

[He runs off, sobbing.]

RAF. What ails him, think you?

GIO. Troth, I have no notion.

[Enter Nurse.]

GUI. What ho, good Grazia! I hear my uncle