Yolanda. Amaury——
Amaury. What have I done? Too pitiless have pressed
You to this coat of steel?
Yolanda. No, no.
Amaury. My words,
Or silence, then?
Yolanda. Amaury, no, but sweet,
Sweet as the roses of Damascus crusht,
Your silence is! and sweeter than the dream
Of April nightingale on Troados,
Or gushing by the springs of Chitria,
Your every word of love! Yet—yet—ah, fold me,
Within your arms oblivion and hold me,
Fast to your being press me, and there bless me
With breathèd power of your manhood's might.
Amaury!...
Amaury. This I cannot understand.
Yolanda (freeing herself). Nothing—a folly—groundless frailty.
Amaury. You've been again at some old tale of sorrow,
(Goes to the lectern.)
Pining along the pages of a book—
This, telling of that Italy madonna
Whose days were sad—I have forgotten how.
Is it not so?