_Petrarca._ A chastity unchallenged of desire-- And therefore none! Aih, none! For, were it other; Could I aver that once, that ever once Her lids had fallen low in fear of love, I'd bid the desert of my heart burn dry-- To the last oasis-- With resignation! But never have they, never! and I'm mad.
_Gherardo._ And you will seek to cure it with more madness? To cast the devil of love out of your veins With other love and lower!
_Petrarca._ Yes, yes, yes! (_drinks._) With little Sancia's! Whose soul is a sweet sin! Who lives but for this life and asks of Death Only a breath of time before he ends it, To tell three beads and fill her mouth with _aves_. Just for enough, she says, "To tell God that He made me"--as He did.
_Gherardo._ And to blaspheme with! O obsessèd man.
But you will fail! For this vain revelry Will ease not. And I see all love is base-- As say the Fathers-- All!... and the body of woman Is vile from the beginning.
The body of woman's born of bliss and beauty. Only one thing is fairer--that's her soul.
_Gherardo._ And is that Word which says thou shalt not look Upon another's wife a monkish lie?
_Petrarca_ (_torn_). As I found! After my heart became a poison flame-- Within me! A fierce inquisitor against my peace! After I followed her from Santa Clara, That mass-hour, To an escutcheoned door! After and not before ... And such another's! Ugo di Sade's! A beast whose sullen mind two thoughts would drain; Whose breath is a poltroon's; Who is unkind.... I've seen her weep; who loves Her not.... And yet the fane of song I frame her, The love I burn on it, she laughs away. To hide her own?... I will not so believe.
_Petrarca._ Yet you bid me quarry still The deeps of me to shrine her? And be Avignon's laughter? A mock, a titter on the tongue of geese That gad the city gates? A type of fools that sigh while others kiss? "Francesco Petrarca! Who never clasped his mistress--but in a sonnet! Who fills empty canzone with his passion-- But never her ears! Never!--though she was wed against her will To an unlettered boor out bartering-- One whom she well could leave!"... I'll not, Gherardo!... Sonnets?
But Lello comes! and brings me Sancia! Filippa! merry Filippa and Sancia! We'll drink!--wine of Rocella! Wine of the Rhine! Bielna! San Porciano!-- And kiss!