Charles: So is he! but to-day he bold unsheathed
His skill and bravery.
Cecco: And did not crave
A boon of you?
Charles: None. But you put not ill
My thought to it. His aspiration flags——
Cecco: Ah, flags.
Charles: New wings it needs and buoyancy.
My trust in him is ripe: the fruit of it,
He shall be lord of Arta—total lord.
Cecco: He begged no softer boon?
Charles: Cunning! again?
Sleek questions of a sleeker consequence?
Cecco: It was, sir, only of Antonio.
Charles: Worm, you began so. Stretch now to the end,
Or—will you?
Cecco: I would say—would ask—and hope
There is no thorny hint in it to vex you,
To prick your humor—may not he be sick,
Amorous, mellow sick upon some maid?