SALICIO.
What obstacle forbids thee to reveal
This ill to one who surely hopes to heal
In part the wound?
ALBANIO.
Love, love that doth deny
All comfort,—Love desires that I should die;
Knowing too well that for a little while
The mere relation would my grief beguile,
More swiftly to destroy, the God unjust
Has now deprived my bosom of the gust
Which late it had, to candidly avow,
And thus conclude its sorrows; so that now
It neither does become thy truth to seek
For farther knowledge, nor myself to speak,—
Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed,
And who alone in dying look for rest.
SALICIO.
Who is so barbarous to himself as e'er
To' entrust his person to a murderer's care,
His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,
That without discomposure thou canst see
Love make in frolic, for a flight of skill,
Thy very tongue the puppet of his will?
ALBANIO.
Salicio, cease this language; curb thy tongue;
I feel the grief, the insult, and the wrong:
Whence these fine words? what schoolman did commit
To thee this pomp of philosophic wit,
A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheer
The careless lip can learn to be severe,
And oh, how easily a heart at ease
Can counsel sickness to throw off disease!
SALICIO.