Flat-Flat!


_Cesario (calling up to watchman on the Chapel roof)._ Ho there! What news?

_A Voice._ Captain, no sail!

_Cesario._ Where sits
The wind?

_Voice._ Nor' west, and north a point!

_Cesario._ Perchance
They have down'd sail and creep around the flats.

_Gamba (tuning his viol)._ Flats, flats! the straight horizon, and the life
These seven years laid by rule! The curst canal
Drawn level through the drawn-out level sand
And thistle-tufts that stink as soon as pluck'd!
Give me the hot crag and the dancing heat,
Give me the Abruzzi, and the cushioned thyme--
Brooks at my feet, high glittering snows above.
What were thy music, viol, without a ridge?


[_Noise of commotion in the city below._


_Cesario_. Watchman, what news?