FRANCESCA. On love that gives Joy at all seasons, changes night to day, Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the barbéd dart Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm In all the gaping wounds of earth, and lulls The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear Into a slumber sweet as infancy's! On love that laughs at the impending sword, And puts aside the shield of caution: cries, To all its enemies, "Come, strike me now!-- Now, while I hold my kingdom, while my crown Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green, Undimmed, unwithered; for I cannot tell That I shall e'er be happier!" Dear Paolo, Would you lapse down from misery to death, Tottering through sorrow and infirmity? Or would you perish at a single blow, Cut off amid your wildest revelry, Falling among the wine-cups and the flowers, And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy sense First gazed around eternity? Come, love! The present whispers joy to us; we'll hear The voiceless future when its turn arrives.
PAOLO. Thou art a siren. Sing, forever sing; Hearing thy voice, I cannot tell what fate Thou hast provided when the song is o'er;-- But I will venture it.
PEPE. O, brother Lanciotto!--O, my stars!-- If this thing lasts, I simply shall go mad! [_Laughs, and rolls on the ground._] O Lord! to think my pretty lady puss Had tricks like this, and we ne'er know of it! I tell you, Lanciotto, you and I Must have a patent for our foolery! "She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth!"-- There's the beginning; where's the end of it? O poesy! debauch thee only once, And thou'rt the greatest wanton in the world! O cousin Lanciotto--ho, ho, ho! [_Laughing._] Can a man die of laughter? Here we sat; Mistress Francesca so demure and calm; Paolo grand, poetical, sublime!-- Eh! what is this? Paolo's dagger? Good! Here is more proof, sweet cousin Broken-back. "In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by!" [_Mimicking_ PAOLO.] That's very pretty! Here's its counterpart: In thoughts of hate, we'll pick them up again! [_Takes the dagger._] Now for my soldier, now for crook-backed Mars! Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze. He'll kill me? Yes: what then? That's nothing new, Except to me; I'll bear for custom's sake. More blood will follow; like the royal sun, I shall go down in purple. Fools for luck; The proverb holds like iron. I must run, Ere laughter smother me.--O, ho, ho, ho! [_Exit, laughing._