Charles: Prove pang? I then
But for an "if" must pluck it from me?
Fulvia: So
I must believe.
Charles: Pluck it from me! Will you—
Now will you have me mouth and foam and thresh
The quiet in me to a maelstrom! This
Is mine, this joy; and still is mine, though I
To keep it must bring on me bitterness
And bleeding and—I rage!
Fulvia: Then shall I cease,
And say no more? No, you are on a flood
Whose sinking may be rapid down to horror.
And she—this girl! It has been long since you
Gave license rein upon your will, and spur.
Do not so now.
Charles: License?
Fulvia: She is all morn
And dream and dew: make her not dark!
Charles: You think—!
Fulvia: Wake her not, ah, not suddenly on terror!
Charles: On terror! (Laughing.)
Fulvia: You've laughed nobler.