PAOLO. Lanciotto, This is sheer frenzy. Join your bride.
LANCIOTTO. I'll not! What, go to her, to feel her very flesh Crawl from my touch?--to hear her sigh and moan, As if God plagued her? Must I come to that? Must I endure your hellish mystery With my own wife, and roll my eyes away In sentimental bliss? No, no! until I go to her, with confident belief In her integrity and candid love, I'll shun her as a leper. [_Alarm-bells toll._
_Enter, hastily, a_ MESSENGER _in disorder._
MESSENGER. My lord, the Ghibelins are up--
LANCIOTTO. And I Will put them down again! I thank thee, Heaven, For this unlooked-for aid! [_Aside._
LANCIOTTO. It matters not,--nor yet the time, place, cause, Of their rebellion. I would throttle it, Were it a riot, or a drunken brawl!
LANCIOTTO. My bride will pardon me; Bless me, perhaps, as I am going forth;-- Thank me, perhaps, if I should ne'er return. [_Aside._] A soldier's duty has no bridals in it.
PAOLO. Lanciotto, this is folly. Let me take Your usual place of honour.
LANCIOTTO. [_Laughing._] Ha! ha! ha! What! thou, a tilt-yard soldier, lead my troops! My wife will ask it shortly. Not a word Of opposition from the new-made bride? Nay, she looks happier. O! accursed day, That I was mated to an empty heart! [_Aside._
PEPE. Uncle, let him go. He'll find it cooler on a battle-field Than in his--
LANCIOTTO. Hark! the fool speaks oracles. You, soldiers, who are used to follow me, And front our charges, emulous to bear The shock of battle on your forward arms,-- Why stand ye in amazement? Do your swords Stick to their scabbards with inglorious rust? Or has repose so weakened your big hearts, That you can dream with trumpets at your ears? Out with your steel! It shames me to behold Such tardy welcome to my war-worn blade! [_Draws._] [_The_ KNIGHTS _and_ SOLDIERS _draw._] Ho! draw our forces out! Strike camp, sound drums, And set us on our marches! As I live, I pity the next foeman who relies On me for mercy! Farewell! to you all-- To all alike--a soldier's short farewell! [_Going._]
SCENE I. _The Same. The Garden of the Castle. Enter_ PEPE, _singing._
PEPE. 'Tis jolly to walk in the shady greenwood With a damsel by your side; 'Tis jolly to walk from the chapel-door, With the hand of your pretty bride; 'Tis jolly to rest your weary head, When life runs low and hope is fled, On the heart where you confide: 'Tis jolly, jolly, jolly, they say, They say--but I never tried.