'It means, my sweet,' he said, throwing his arm almost roughly round her, 'it means—but, Lucrezia, have you not seen that I love you?'
'Loose me! Let me go! What do you, signore! Madonna Beatrice——'
'Shall not know!' said the duke.
'No, my lord, no. She is so good, so generous to me. Leave me, for pity's sake—'
'I will save your brother—do all your desire—be your slave. Only have pity on me.'
And half-sincere in his passion and his tears, he murmured in trembling tones those lines of the poet's:—
'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years,
But singing brings my torture no relief;
Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief,
And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."'