To Montes men the valour, while
Castelvin's women are so fair, you'd say
The die which seraphims did stamp
Had moulded each;—
These feuds, methinks, should end by wedding torch.
Then would Italia envious be
Of brave Verona's chivalry.
Marin. I, not only as Verona's son, but man,
Am troubled, bored, and plagued to see
The ills this cankered hatred breeds;
The very dogs do snarl and bite,
As, wandering up and down your streets,
They by Castelvin's or Monteses' men are held.
Each varlet struts with muzzled hound in leash,—
Free, and their teeth were swords,
What work they'd give the Alguazils!
Your cats with discords music hail,
Companions of the Montes' or Castelvins' kin;
Scratching in kitchens low, on house-flats high,
They spit and claw as they were flesh and blood.
Then come the cocks, who stately strut and crow
In rival bands, and ever live at war;
For let a cock of Montes' brood but crow,
Thirty Castelvines rush to dizzy heights,
And crack their throats in chorus.
Roselo. Thy tongue, Marin, scarce matches with thy wit;
And yet some wisdom holds thy nimble tongue.
Marin. Thy word and deed a match unseemly and unwise;
Thou seek'st to enter yonder palace gate: you know
There every man's thy sworn and deadly foe;
And will revenge upon our luckless heads
