University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—Palace of Fazio.
Fazio and Bianca.
Fazio.
Dost thou love me, Bianca?

Bianca.
There's a question
For a philosopher!—Why, I've answer'd it
For two long years; and, oh, for many more,
It will not stick upon my lips to answer thee.

Fazio.
Thou'rt in the fashion, then. The court, Bianca,
The ladies of the court, find me a fair gentleman;
Aye, and a dangerous wit too, that smites smartly.

Bianca.
And thou believest it all!

Fazio.
Why, if the gallants,
The lordly and frank spirits of the time,
Troop around thee with gay rhymes on thy beauties,
Tinkling their smooth and amorous flatteries,
Shalt thou be then a solemn infidel?

Bianca.
I shall not heed them; my poor beauty needs
Only one flatterer.

Fazio.
Aye, but they'll press on thee,
And force their music into thy deaf ears.
Think ye, ye should be coy, and calm, and cold?

Bianca.
Oh, no!—I fear me a discourteous laugh
Might be their guerdon for their lavish lying.

Fazio.
But if one trip upon your lip, or wind
Your fingers in his hard hot hand, think ye
Ye could endure it?

Bianca.
Fazio, thou wrong'st me
With such dishonest questionings. My lord,
There's such an awe in virtue, it can make
The anger of a sleek smooth brow like mine
Strike the hot libertine to dust before me.
He'd dare to dally with a fire in his hand,
Kiss ragged briars with his unholy lips,
Ere with his rash assault attaint my honour.

Fazio.
But if ye see me by a noble lady,
Whispering as though she were my shrine, whereon
I lay my odorous incense, and her beauty
Grow riper, richer at my cherishing praise;
If she lean on me with a fond round arm,
If her eye drink the light from out mine eyes,
And if her lips drop sounds for my ear only;
Thou'lt arch thy moody brow, look at me gravely,
With a pale anger on thy silent cheek.
'Tis out of keeping, 'tis not the court fashion—
We must forego this clinging and the clasping;
Be cold, and strange, and courteous to each other;
And say, “How doth my lord?” “How slept my lady?”
As though we dwelt at opposite ends o' the city.

Bianca.
What hath distemper'd thee?—This is unnatural;
Thou could'st not talk thus in thy stedfast senses.
Fazio, thou hast seen Aldabella!—

Fazio.
Well,
She is no basilisk—there's no death in her eyes.

Bianca.
Aye, Fazio, but there is; and more than death—
A death beyond the grave—a death of sin—
A howling, hideous, and eternal death—
Death the flesh shrinks from.—No, thou must not see her!
Nay, I'm imperative—thou'rt mine, and shalt not.

Fazio.
Shalt not!—Dost think me a thick-blooded slave,
To say “Amen” unto thy positive “shalt not?”
The hand upon a dial, only to point
Just as your humorous ladyship choose to shine?

Bianca.
Fazio, thou settest a fever in my brain;
My very lips burn, Fazio, at the thought:
I had rather see thee in thy winding-sheet
Than that bad woman's arms; I had rather grave-worms
Were on thy lips than that bad woman's kisses.

Fazio.
Howbeit, there is no blistering in their taste:
There is no suffocation in those arms—
They are soft, and white, and supple.

Bianca.
Ah! take heed,
Take heed; we are passionate; our milk of love
Doth turn to wormwood, and that's bitter drinking.
The fondest are most phrenetic: where the fire
Burneth intensest, there the inmate pale
Doth dread the broad and beaconing conflagration.
If that ye cast us to the winds, the winds
Will give us their unruly restless nature;
We whirl and whirl; and where we settle, Fazio,
But he that ruleth the mad winds can know.
If ye do drive the love out of my soul,
That is its motion, being, and its life,
There'll be a conflict strange and horrible,
Among all fearful and ill-visaged fiends,
For the blank void; and their mad revel there
Will make me—oh, I know not what—hate thee!—
Oh, no!—I could not hate thee, Fazio:
Nay, nay, my Fazio, 'tis not come to that;
Mine arms, mine arms, shall say the next “shall not;”
I'll never startle more thy peevish ears,
But I'll speak to thee with my positive lips.

[Kissing and clinging to him.
Fazio.
Oh, what a wild and wayward child am I!—
Like the hungry fool, that in his moody fit
Dash'd from his lips his last delicious morsel.
I'll see her once, Bianca, and but once;
And then a rich and breathing tale I'll tell her
Of our full happiness. If she be angel,
'Twill be a gleam of Paradise to her,
And she'll smile at it one of those soft smiles,
That makes the air seem sunny, blithe, and balmy.
If she be devil—Nay, but that's too ugly;
The fancy doth rebel at it, and shrink
As from a serpent in a knot of flowers.
Devil and Aldabella!—Fie!—They sound
Like nightingales and screech-owls heard together.
What! must I still have tears to kiss away?—
I will return—Good night!—It is but once.
See, thou'st the taste o' my lips now at our parting;
And when we meet again, if they be tainted,
Thou shalt—oh no, thou shalt not, canst not hate me.

[Exeunt.