A Florentine Tragedy | Page 6

But who is this? Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman
doubtless, Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen Upon a house
without a host to greet him? I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house
Lacking a host is but an empty thing And void of honour; a cup without
its wine, A scabbard without steel to keep it straight, A flowerless
garden widowed of the sun. Again I crave your pardon, my sweet
cousin.
BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither.
SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me. Who is it then
who with such courtly grace Deigns to accept our hospitalities?
GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi.
SIMONE. What! The son Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim
towers Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon I see from out
my casement every night! Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here,
Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife, Most honest if uncomely to
the eye, Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you, As is the wont
of women.
GUIDO. Your gracious lady, Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the
stars And robs Diana's quiver of her beams Has welcomed me with
such sweet courtesies That if it be her pleasure, and your own, I will
come often to your simple house. And when your business bids you
walk abroad I will sit here and charm her loneliness Lest she might
sorrow for you overmuch. What say you, good Simone?
SIMONE. My noble Lord, You bring me such high honour that my
tongue Like a slave's tongue is tied, and cannot say The word it would.
Yet not to give you thanks Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you,

From my heart's core.
It is such things as these That knit a state together, when a Prince So
nobly born and of such fair address, Forgetting unjust Fortune's
differences, Comes to an honest burgher's honest home As a most
honest friend.
And yet, my Lord, I fear I am too bold. Some other night We trust that
you will come here as a friend; To-night you come to buy my
merchandise. Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will, I doubt not but I
have some dainty wares Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late,
But we poor merchants toil both night and day To make our scanty
gains. The tolls are high, And every city levies its own toll, And
prentices are unskilful, and wives even Lack sense and cunning, though
Bianca here Has brought me a rich customer to-night. Is it not so,
Bianca? But I waste time. Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say?
Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords. Kneel down upon the floor.
You are better so. Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch!
Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes. We dare not keep them waiting.
Ay! 'tis that, Give it to me; with care. It is most costly. Touch it with
care. And now, my noble Lord - Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca
damask, The very web of silver and the roses So cunningly wrought
that they lack perfume merely To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my
Lord. Is it not soft as water, strong as steel? And then the roses! Are
they not finely woven? I think the hillsides that best love the rose, At
Bellosguardo or at Fiesole, Throw no such blossoms on the lap of
spring, Or if they do their blossoms droop and die. Such is the fate of
all the dainty things That dance in wind and water. Nature herself
Makes war on her own loveliness and slays Her children like Medea.
Nay but, my Lord, Look closer still. Why in this damask here It is
summer always, and no winter's tooth Will ever blight these blossoms.
For every ell I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good, The fruit of
careful thrift.
GUIDO. Honest Simone, Enough, I pray you. I am well content;
To-morrow I will send my servant to you, Who will pay twice your
price.
SIMONE. My generous Prince! I kiss your hands. And now I do
remember Another treasure hidden in my house Which you must see. It
is a robe of state: Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet: The

pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed Wrought of a pearl: the
collar all of pearls, As thick as moths in summer streets at night, And
whiter than the moons that madmen see Through prison bars at
morning. A male ruby Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp The
Holy Father has not such a stone, Nor could the Indies show a brother
to it. The brooch itself is of most curious