_(Wistfully)_ Laugh in his honest eyes? Forgive me, Lucio!
Tell me, whate'er have slackened, there has slipped
No knot of love. To-morrow we'll make sport,
Be playmates and invent new games, and old--
Wreath flowers for crowns--


[_He drags his hand away. She gazes at him
wistfully, and turns to the Captain of the
Guard._


Cesario,
What are the suits?

_Cesario._ They are but three to-day,
Madonna. First, a scoundrel here in irons
For having struck the Guard.

_Regent (eying the culprit)._ His name, I think,
Is Donatello Crocco. Hey? You improve,
Good man. The last time 'twas your wife you basted.
At this rate, in another year or two
You'll bang the Turk. Do you confess the assault?

_Prisoner._ I do.

_Regent._ Upon a promise we dismiss you.
Your tavern, as it comes into our mind,
Is the 'Three Cups.' So many, and no more,