LITMIR.BIZ

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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;

       Tonight 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 tonight.

       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;

       Tomorrow 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 art,

       Cellini never made a fairer thing

       To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it.

       There is none worthier in our city here,

       And it will suit you well. Upon one side

       A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold

       To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other

       Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand,

       No bigger than the smallest ear of corn,

       That wavers at the passing of a bird,

       And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say,

       It breathed, or held its breath.

       Worthy Bianca,

       Would not this noble and most costly robe

       Suit young Lord Guido well?

       Nay, but entreat him;

       He will refuse you nothing, though the price

       Be as a prince’s ransom. And your profit

       Shall not be less than mine.

      BIANCA: Am I your prentice?

       Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe?

      GUIDO: Nay, fair Bianca, I will buy the

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