(They go to the table.)
And see, they are wreathed of April,
With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.
We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!
Sancia. And that is—what? some dull and silly show
Out of your sallow books?
Petrarca.Those books were writ
With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon
Papyri of the stars!
Sancia. And—long ago?
Ha! long ago?
Petrarca. Returnless centuries!
Sancia (contemptuously). Who loves the past, loves mummies and their dust—
And he will mould![20]
Who loves the future loves what may not be,
And feeds on fear.
Only one flower has Time—its name is Now!
Come, pluck it! pluck it!
Lello. Brava, maid! the Now!
Sancia (dancing). Come, pluck it! pluck it!
Petrarca.By my soul, I will!