To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed, I would be merry as beseems a host Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest Waiting to greet him. [Takes up a lute.]
But what is this, my lord?
Why, you have brought a lute to play to us.
Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold, Pardon, but play.
GUIDO. I will not play to-night.
Some other night, Simone.
[To Bianca] You and I Together, with no listeners but the stars, Or the more jealous moon.
SIMONE. Nay, but my lord!
Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard That by the ****** fingering of a string, Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds, Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze, Those who are curious in this art can draw Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also How such strange magic lurks within these shells That at their bidding casements open wide And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair, And wantons like a maenad. Let that pass.
Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play:
Ravish my ears with some sweet melody;
My soul is in a prison-house, and needs Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca, Entreat our guest to play.
BIANCA. Be not afraid, Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment:
That moment is not now. You weary him With your uncouth insistence.
GUIDO. Honest Simone, Some other night. To-night I am content With the low music of Bianca's voice, Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix His cycle round her beauty.
SIMONE. You flatter her.
She has her virtues as most women have, But beauty in a gem she may not wear.
It is better so, perchance.
Well, my dear lord, If you will not draw melodies from your lute To charm my moody and o'er-troubled soul You'll drink with me at least?
[Motioning Guido to his own place.]
Your place is laid.
Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters.
Set the great bar across. I would not have The curious world with its small prying eyes To peer upon our pleasure.
Now, my lord, Give us a toast from a full brimming cup.
[Starts back.]
What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks As purple as a wound upon Christ's side.
Wine merely is it? I have heard it said When wine is spilt blood is spilt also, But that's a foolish tale.
My lord, I trust My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards Yield a more wholesome juice.
GUIDO. I like it well, Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca.
[BIANCA drinks.]
Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, Matched with this draught were bitter!
Good Simone, You do not share the feast.
SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night.
Some humour, or some fever in my blood, At other seasons temperate, or some thought That like an adder creeps from point to point, That like a madman crawls from cell to cell, Poisons my palate and makes appetite A loathing, not a longing.
[Goes aside.]
GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, This common chapman wearies me with words.
I must go hence. To-morrow I will come.
Tell me the hour.
BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn!
Until I see you all my life is vain.
GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca, Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, Nor gaze at anything that does not show Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous Of what your vision feasts on.
BIANCA. Oh! be sure Your image will be with me always. Dear Love can translate the very meanest thing Into a sign of sweet remembrances.
But come before the lark with its shrill song Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand Upon the balcony.
GUIDO. And by a ladder Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, Like snow upon a rose-tree.
BIANCA. As you will.
You know that I am yours for love or Death.
GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house.
SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo's bell Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon, Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile.
I fear we may not see you here again, And that fear saddens my too ****** heart.
GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand Most constant in my friendship, But to-night I go to mine own home, and that at once.
To-morrow, sweet Bianca.
SIMONE. Well, well, so be it.
I would have wished for fuller converse with you, My new friend, my honourable guest, But that it seems may not be.
And besides I do not doubt your father waits for you, Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think, Are his one child? He has no other child.
You are the gracious pillar of his house, The flower of a garden full of weeds.
Your father's nephews do not love him well So run folks' tongues in Florence. I meant but that.
