A Florentine Tragedy | Page 9

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 the
great bar across. I would not have The curious world with its small
prying eyes To peer upon our pleasure.
Now, my lord, Give us a toast from a full brimming cup. [Starts back.]
What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks As purple as a wound upon
Christ's side. Wine merely is it? I have heard it said When wine is spilt
blood is spilt also, But that's a foolish tale.
My lord, I trust My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples Is fiery
like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards Yield a more wholesome
juice.
GUIDO. I like it well, Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, Will
toast the fair Bianca when her lips Have like red rose-leaves floated on
this cup And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca.
[BIANCA drinks.]
Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, Matched with this draught were
bitter! Good Simone, You do not share the feast.
SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night.
Some humour, or some fever in my blood, At other seasons temperate,
or some thought That like an adder creeps from point to point, That like
a madman crawls from cell to cell, Poisons my palate and makes
appetite A loathing, not a longing. [Goes aside.]
GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, This common chapman wearies me with words.
I must go hence. To-morrow I will come. Tell me the hour.
BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn! Until I see you all my life is
vain.

GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, And in those stars,
your eyes, let me behold Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca,
Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, Nor gaze at anything that
does not show Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous Of what
your vision feasts on.
BIANCA. Oh! be sure Your image will be with me always. Dear Love
can translate the very meanest thing Into a sign of sweet remembrances.
But come before the lark with its shrill song Has waked a world of
dreamers. I will stand Upon the balcony.
GUIDO. And by a ladder Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with
pearls Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, Like snow upon a
rose-tree.
BIANCA. As you will. You know that I am yours for love or Death.
GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house.
SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo's bell Has not
yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen Who with their hollow horns
mock the pale moon, Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile. I fear we
may not see you here again, And that fear saddens my too simple heart.
GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand Most constant in my
friendship, But to-night I go to mine own home, and that at once.
To-morrow, sweet Bianca.
SIMONE. Well, well, so be it. I would have wished for fuller converse
with you, My new friend, my honourable guest, But that it seems may
not be.
And besides I do not doubt your father waits for you, Wearying for
voice or footstep. You, I think, Are his one child? He has no other child.
You are the gracious pillar of his house, The flower of a garden full of
weeds. Your father's nephews do not love him well So run folks'
tongues in Florence. I meant but that. Men say they envy your
inheritance And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes As Ahab
looked on Naboth's goodly field. But that is but the chatter of a town
Where women talk too much.
Good-night, my lord. Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase Is
full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon Grows, like a miser, niggard of
her beams, And hides her face behind a muslin mask As harlots do
when they go forth to snare Some wretched soul in sin. Now,