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Most Frenchified in form.

Well, well, well! I am dreaming:

Poetry, you call my dreams....

This pleasant marriage

Of Don Alfonso and my Donna Lucrece

Will make us jaunty in the Vatican.

My pearls!—

You watch them through my fingers—lucent lumps;

This pear-shaped ovule heavy with its light;

The pearls and pearlets dropping

With patters loud and soft together—listen!

My daughter will have more and lovelier pearls

Than any woman in the greedy world.

Would you have sight of one large coffer filled,

This emulates?

[Rising]. There is the treasury door, There the Lord Casanova, full of winks At voices from the cave.

Enter Monsignore Gaspare Poto.

Your Holiness,

I sought his Excellence the Duke Giovanni

In his apartments, but he is not there.

[To the Envoy.] So strange! My son the Duke of Gandia, fails me To-day with greeting, and to-day we fix The hour when I review his armaments Under our blessèd gonfalon. ’Tis strange. [To Poto.] Go to Madonna de’ Catanei’s house: His mother made a supper, I was told, For him and for his brother. [Exit Poto. [To the Envoy.] You conduct Don Cesare when, next month, as our Legate, He goes to crown your king?