Cecco (going to window): It leans to sunset.
Charles: The sky—the sky?
Cecco: A murk moves slowly up.
Charles (wearily): There should be storm—gloating of wind and grind
Of hopeless thunders. Lightnings should laugh out
As tongues of fiends. There should be storm.
(His head sinks on his breast.)
(Suddenly.) Yet!—yet!——
Cecco: My lord?
Charles: The glow and glory of her seem
Dead in me!
Cecco: Of—the Greek?
Charles: And yearning has
Grown impotent—as 'twere a moment's folly,
A left and quickly quenched desire of youth
Kindled in me!—To youth alone love's sudden.
Cecco: Sir, dare I speak?
Charles: Speak.