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A sound, a simple song without design, In revolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions, All grand events, have oft effected more Than deepest cunning of their paltry art. Some drunken soldier, eloquent with wine, Who loves not fighting, hath harangu'd his mates, For they in, truth some hardships have endur'd. Wherefore in this should we suspect the court?

Ros. Ah! there is something, friend, in Mantua's court, Will make the blackest trait of bare-fac'd treason Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye.

Bas. Nay, 'tis a weakness in thee, Rosinberg, Which makes thy mind so jealous and distrustful, Why should the duke be false?

Ros. Because he is a double, crafty prince— Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly, That he in some dark treaty is engag'd, E'en with our master's enemy the Frank.

Bas. And so thou think'st—

Ros.Nay, hear me to the end, Last night that good and honourable dame, Noble Albini, with most friendly art, From the gay clam'rous throng my steps beguil'd, Unmask'd before me, and with earnest grace, Entreated me, if I were Basil's friend, To tell him hidden danger waits him here, And warn him well fair Mantua's court to leave. She said she lov'd thee much, and hadst thou seen How anxiously she urg'd—

''Bas. (Interruping him)'' By heav'n and earth,