Petrarca.Monkish lies!
(Drinks again for courage.)
The body of woman's born of bliss and beauty.
Only one thing is fairer—that's her soul.
Gherardo. And is that Word which says thou shalt not look
Upon another's wife a monkish lie?
(Silence.)
Your Laura is another's.
Petrarca (torn). As I found!
After my heart became a poison flame—
Within me!
A fierce inquisitor against my peace![10]
After I followed her from Santa Clara,
That mass-hour,
To an escutcheoned door!
After and not before ... And such another's!
Ugo di Sade's!
A beast whose sullen mind two thoughts would drain;
Whose breath is a poltroon's;
Who is unkind.... I've seen her weep; who loves
Her not.... And yet the fane of song I frame her,
The love I burn on it, she laughs away.
To hide her own?... I will not so believe.
Gherardo. Nor should you.[11]
Petrarca. Yet you bid me quarry still
The deeps of me to shrine her?
And be Avignon's laughter?
A mock, a titter on the tongue of geese
That gad the city gates?
A type of fools that sigh while others kiss?
"Francesco Petrarca!
Who never clasped his mistress—but in a sonnet!
Who fills empty canzone with his passion—
But never her ears!
Never!—though she was wed against her will
To an unlettered boor out bartering—
One whom she well could leave!"...
I'll not, Gherardo!... Sonnets?[12]
(Tears several from desk.)