LITMIR.BIZ

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It is strange, my lord,

       I cannot eat or drink with you, tonight.

       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. Tomorrow 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 tonight

       I go to mine own home, and that at once.

       Tomorrow, 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, I will get

       Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord,

       It is but meet that I should wait on you

       Who have so honoured my poor burgher’s house,

       Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made

       Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes

       My wife and I will talk of this fair night

       And its great issues.

       Why, what a sword is this.

       Ferrara’s temper, pliant as a snake,

       And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel,

       One need fear nothing in the moil of life.

       I never touched so delicate a blade.

       I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now.

       We men of peace are taught humility,

       And to bear many burdens on our backs,

       And not to murmur at an unjust world,

       And to endure unjust indignities.

       We are taught that, and like the patient Jew

       Find profit in our pain.

       Yet I remember

       How once upon the road to Padua

       A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me,

       I slit his throat and left him. I can bear

       Dishonour, public insult, many shames,

       Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he

       Who filches from me something that is mine,

       Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate

       From which I feed mine appetite—oh! he

       Perils his soul and body in the theft

       And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay

       We men are moulded!

      GUIDO: Why do you speak like this?

      SIMONE: I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword

       Is better tempered than this steel of yours?

       Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low

       For you to cross your rapier against mine,

       In jest, or earnest?

      GUIDO: Naught would please me better

       Than to stand fronting you with naked blade

       In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword.

       Fetch yours. Tonight will settle the great issue

       Whether the Prince’s or the merchant’s steel

       Is better tempered. Was not that your word?

       Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir?

      SIMONE: My lord, of all the gracious courtesies

       That you have showered on my barren house

       This is the highest.

       Bianca, fetch my sword.

       Thrust back that stool and table. We must have

       An open circle for our match at arms,

       And good Bianca here shall hold the torch

       Lest what is but a jest grow serious.

      BIANCA

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