A Florentine Tragedy | Page 8

sell to sillier bidders? Honest Simone,
Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you. My wits have other quarries.
BIANCA. Noble Lord, I pray you pardon my good husband here, His
soul stands ever in the market-place, And his heart beats but at the price
of wool. Yet he is honest in his common way. [To Simone] And you,
have you no shame? A gracious Prince Comes to our house, and you
must weary him With most misplaced assurance. Ask his pardon.
SIMONE. I ask it humbly. We will talk to-night Of other things. I hear
the Holy Father Has sent a letter to the King of France Bidding him
cross that shield of snow, the Alps, And make a peace in 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.
* * * * *
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