Front Page Titles (by Subject) SCENE VI.—: Enter Count Monterone. - Rigoletto: An Opera in Four Acts
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SCENE VI.—: Enter Count Monterone. - Giuseppe Verdi, Rigoletto: An Opera in Four Acts 
Rigoletto: An Opera in Four Acts, words by Victor Hugo (New York: Fred Rullman, n.d.). Metropolitan Opera House, Grand Opera, Libretto.
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(from without) I must see him.
(looking at the Duke, with pride.)
Yes, Monterone.—My voice
For ever I will raise against your crimes.
(to the Duke, counterfeiting Mon.’s voice.)
I must see him.
You have conspired against our name, my lord,
And we have granted pardon—
What madness now is yours? In this glad hour
To come and claim the honor of your daughter!
(looking at Rig. with contempt.)
A new insult! but your nefarious orgies
I will disturb. Here I will raise my voice
Until the honor of an injured family
Shall be restored.
And even if you were
To sign my death and send me to the block,
My shade will claim revenge!
No more—arrest him.
He is mad!
He is mad!
Be both for ever accursed.
[To Rig. and the Duke.
To strike the dying lion,
’Tis base—but thou, reptile,
Who dar’st to laugh at an old father’s grief
Malediction fall on thee!
What do I hear!
[Aside. All, except Rig.
Rash man, your evil spirit
Has brought you to disturb this feast,
Your words are vain. Away!
The Duke’s revenge you raise!
No hope for you remains,
This is your fatal day.
[Mon. is lead away by the soldiers, the others follow the Duke.
The end of a Street. House and Garden ofRigoletto,with flight of stairs. EnterRigolettoenveloped in his cloak, and followed bySparafucile,carrying a long sword.
(That man has cursed me.)
Go: I need you not.
I have not spoken! Only I showed myself
There with my dagger, ready to your orders.
You are a thief.
That for a trifle will free you from rivals,
And you have one.
Who is he?
Is not your mistress here?
(What do I hear?) How much have I to pay
To rid me from a man?
A little more.
And when must you be paid?
One half before the deed, The other after.
(O wretch!) And how can you Be sure of the success?
I kill them in the street,
Or e’en in my own house.
I await my man at night;
A single blow—he dies.
But how in your own house?
Nothing can be more easy,
My sister helps me.
She dances in the streets—she is handsome;
And she attracts the man I want—I then—
Without the slightest noise,
This is my trusty weapon!
[Shows his sword.
Can I serve you?
The worse for you.
Perhaps another day.
Sparafucile I am called.
[In the act of going away
But where could I meet you?
At this spot, always at night.
My weapon is my tongue—and his the dagger;
I make the people laugh, he makes them mourn!
We are alike!—That man has cursed me!
Ye men and nature.
’Tis you that made me wicked;
O rage! to be deformed—and a buffoon!
To be condemned to laugh against my will:
To ask in vain the common gift—of tears!
Alas! my master, young,
And full of mirth,
At every moment says,
Now make me laugh, buffoon.
I must do it. Oh! rage.
I hate you all, vile courtiers!
On you, therefore, my tongue delights to dwell;
For you I am depraved—
But here I am not the same;
That man has cursed me! But why this thought
Thus haunts my mind?
What can I have to fear? No, No, ’tis madness.
[He opens and enters.
EnterGildafrom house and throws herself in his arms.
Near to thee alone,
This poor dejected heart returns to joy.
My father dear!
Thou art my only hope;
What else have I on earth except my Gilda?
You sigh! What is the cause o your affliction?
Tell it to your poor daughter
Intrust to me your secrets,
And let me know my family
Ah! thou hast none!
What matters it to thee?
If you object to speak
Of our relations—
Dost thou ever leave this house?
I only go to church.
That’s right, my child.
If you will not reveal your name or rank,
Ah, let me know, at least, who is my mother.
Ah, do not awake, I pray,
A memory so sad;
Of my dejected state
She alone compassion had.
Despised, deformed, and poor,
Through pity, me she loved.
She died—ah, may the earth
Lay lightly on her head—
Thou art my only treasure—
O God! be thou her aid?
Alas, what grief! ah, never
Saw I such bitter tears!
Ah, father, be more calm,
Or you will break my heart.
To me reveal your name;
To me your grief impart.
Why this?—I am thy father,
This is enough for thee.
I might perhaps be hated,
Or be by others feared.
Alas! I have been cursed!
No country, no relations,
No friends, you then possess?
What dost thou say, my love?
Thou art my god, my country,
Thou art the world to me!
If I could see you glad,
I happy, too, would be.
It is three months now, since we here arrived,
And nothing I have seen yet of the city.
I wish to see it now, if you will grant it.
Hast thou ne’er left this house?
(What do I say?)
Nor must thou ever leave it.
(She might be followed, she might be stolen,
And they would laugh at the dishonor
Of a buffoon. O shame!) Ho! there!
[Towards the house.