A Florentine Tragedy | Page 8

Italy, which will be Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody Than civil rapine or intestine feuds.
GUIDO. Oh! we are weary of that King of France, Who never comes, but ever talks of coming. What are these things to me? There are other things Closer, and of more import, good Simone.
BIANCA [To Simone]. I think you tire our most gracious guest. What is the King of France to us? As much As are your English merchants with their wool.
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SIMONE. Is it so then? Is all this mighty world Narrowed into the confines of this room With but three souls for poor inhabitants? Ay! there are times when the great universe, Like cloth in some unskilful dyer's vat, Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance That time is now! Well! let that time be now. Let this mean room be as that mighty stage Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives Become the stakes God plays for.
I do not know Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me. And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen That bodes not good to any.
Alas! my lord, How poor a bargain is this life of man, And in how mean a market are we sold! When we are born our mothers weep, but when We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one. [Passes to back of stage.]
BIANCA. How like a common chapman does he speak! I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs, Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words Like water from a conduit.
GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, He is not worthy of your thought or mine. The man is but a very honest knave Full of fine phrases for life's merchandise, Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap, A windy brawler in a world of words. I never met so eloquent a fool.
BIANCA. Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands!
SIMONE [turning round]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of Death. What should Death do in such a merry house, With but a wife, a husband, and a friend To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives Who growing weary of their noble lords Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds, And in polluted and dishonoured sheets Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! 'tis so Strange, and yet so. YOU do not know the world. YOU are too single and too honourable. I know it well. And would it were not so, But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey, And youth has left my body. Enough of that. To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed, I would be merry as beseems a host Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest Waiting to greet him. [Takes up a lute.] But what is this, my lord? Why, you have brought a lute to play to us. Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold, Pardon, but play.
GUIDO. I will not play to-night. Some other night, Simone.
[To Bianca] You and I Together, with no listeners but the stars, Or the more jealous moon.
SIMONE. Nay, but my lord! Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard That by the simple fingering of a string, Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds, Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze, Those who are curious in this art can draw Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also How such strange magic lurks within these shells That at their bidding casements open wide And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair, And wantons like a maenad. Let that pass. Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play: Ravish my ears with some sweet melody; My soul is in a prison-house, and needs Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca, Entreat our guest to play.
BIANCA. Be not afraid, Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment: That moment is not now. You weary him With your uncouth insistence.
GUIDO. Honest Simone, Some other night. To-night I am content With the low music of Bianca's voice, Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix His cycle round her beauty.
SIMONE. You flatter her. She has her virtues as most women have, But beauty in a gem she may not wear. It is better so, perchance.
Well, my dear lord, If you will not draw melodies from your lute To charm my moody and o'er-troubled soul You'll drink with me at least?
[Motioning Guido to his own place.]
Your place is laid. Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters. Set