Cecco: This your despair would wound him more than death.
Forget the girl.
Charles: She? Ah, my sullen, wild,
And gloomy pulse beat with a rightful scorn
Against the hours that sieged it. Stony was
Its solitude and fierce, bastioned against
All danger of quick blisses—till, with fury
For that mute tenderness which women's love
Lays on the desolation of the world,
She ravished it!—Yet now 'tis still and cold.
Cecco: But 'twas unknowingly.
Charles: A woman's smile
Never was luring, never, but she knew it,
As hawk the cruel rapture of his wings.
Cecco: She though is young, and youth——
Charles: Must pay with moan
The shriving!—Ah, the sun—the sun—where burns it?
Cecco: Upon a cloud whence it must spring to night.
Charles: So low?
Cecco: Sir, yes.
Charles: Ah, 'tis? so low?