PAOLO. Sad again! Where has the rapture gone of yesterday?
LANCIOTTO. Where are the leaves of Summer? Where the snows Of last year's Winter? Where the joys and griefs That shut our eyes to yesternight's repose, And woke not on the morrow? Joys and griefs, Huntsmen and hounds, ye follow us as game, Poor panting outcasts of your forest-law! Each cheers the others,--one with wild halloos, And one with whines and howls.--A dreadful chase, That only closes when horns sound _à mort!_
PAOLO. Thus ever up and down! Arouse yourself, Balance your mind more evenly, and hunt For honey in the wormwood.
LANCIOTTO. Or find gall Hid in the hanging chalice of the rose: Which think you better? If my mood offend, We'll turn to business,--to the empty cares That make such pother in our feverish life. When at Ravenna, did you ever hear Of any romance in Francesca's life? A love-tilt, gallantry, or anything That might have touched her heart?
PAOLO. Not lightly even. I think her heart as virgin as her hand.
PAOLO. Grammercy! Lanciotto, are you sane? You boasted yesterday--
LANCIOTTO. And changed to-day. Is that so strange? I always mend the fault Of yesterday with wisdom of to-day. She does not love me.
PAOLO. Pshaw! she marries you: 'Twere proof enough for me.
PAOLO. Me, Lanciotto, me! For mercy's sake, Blot out such thoughts--they madden me! What, love-- She love--yet marry you!
LANCIOTTO. It moves you much. 'Twas but a fleeting fancy, nothing more.
LANCIOTTO. Well, to me They seem quite tame; they are my bed-fellows. Think, to a modest woman, what must be The loathsome kisses of an unloved man-- A gross, coarse ruffian!
PAOLO. The picture which you draw, Wronging yourself by horrid images.
LANCIOTTO. Until she love me, till I know, beyond The cavil of a doubt, that she is mine-- Wholly, past question--do you think that I Could so afflict the woman whom I love?
LANCIOTTO. Next to you, Dearer than anything in nature's scope.
PAOLO. [_Aside._] O! Heaven, that I must bear this! Yes, and more,-- More torture than I dare to think upon, Spreads out before me with the coming years, And holds a record blotted with my tears, As that which I must suffer!
LANCIOTTO. Come, Paolo, Come help me woo. I need your guiding eye, To signal me, if I should sail astray.