No, no, your lips are pure, and mine are soiled, For Guilt has been my paramour, and Sin Lain in my bed: O Guido, if you love me Get hence, for every moment is a worm Which gnaws your life away: nay, sweet, get hence, And if in after time you think of me, Think of me as of one who loved you more Than anything on earth; think of me, Guido, As of a woman merely, one who tried To make her life a sacrifice to love, And slew love in the trial: Oh, what is that? The bell has stopped from ringing, and I hear The feet of armed men upon the stair.
That is the signal for the guard to come.
If you must know, That stops my life on this side of the grave, But on the other we shall meet again.
No, no, ’tis not too late: you must get hence; The horse is by the bridge, there is still time. Away, away, you must not tarry here!
[_The_ LORD JUSTICE _is seen through the grated window passing down the corridor preceded by men bearing torches_.]
[_The Headsman with his axe on his shoulder is seen passing the corridor_, _followed by Monks bearing candles_.]
Farewell, dear love, for I must drink this poison. I do not fear the headsman, but I would die Not on the lonely scaffold. But here, Here in thine arms, kissing thy mouth: farewell!
[_Goes to the table and takes the goblet up_.]
O thou churlish gaoler, Even of poisons niggard!
O God! you have not drunk it, Beatrice? Tell me you have not?
Were I to deny it, There is a fire eating at my heart Which would find utterance.
O treacherous love, Why have you not left a drop for me?
No, no, it held but death enough for one.
Is there no poison still upon your lips, That I may draw it from them?
Why should you die? You have not spilt blood, and so need not die: I have spilt blood, and therefore I must die. Was it not said blood should be spilt for blood? Who said that? I forget.
Tarry for me, Our souls will go together.
Nay, you must live. There are many other women in the world Who will love you, and not murder for your sake.
Ah, if we die together, love, why then Can we not lie together in one grave?
And they will strew it With a stark winding-sheet, and bitter herbs: I think there are no roses in the grave, Or if there are, they all are withered now Since my Lord went there.