Sancia. And, to the rack, if faithless? This Filippa!
Messer Petrarca, should she not be made
High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil,
Whose breath of life is oaths?...
But, swear it! ... by the Saints!
Who were great sinners all!
And by the bones of every monk or nun[22]
Who ever darkened the world!
Lello. Or ever shall!
(A pause.)
Petrarca. I'll swear your eyes are singing
Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia,
Like nightingales in the wood.
Sancia. Pah! Messer Poet ...
Such words as those you vent without an end—
To the Lady Laura!
Petrarca. Stop!
(Grows pale.)
Not her name—here!
(All have sat down; he rises.)
Sancia. O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might
Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?[23]