PAOLO. Not lightly even.
I think her heart as virgin as her hand.
LANCIOTTO. Then there is hope.
PAOLO. Of what?
LANCIOTTO. Of winning her.
PAOLO. Grammercy! Lanciotto, are you sane?
You boasted yesterday—
LANCIOTTO. And changed to-day.
Is that so strange? I always mend the fault
Of yesterday with wisdom of to-day.
She does not love me.
PAOLO. Pshaw! she marries you:
'Twere proof enough for me.
LANCIOTTO. Perhaps, she loves you.
PAOLO. Me, Lanciotto, me! For mercy's sake,
Blot out such thoughts—they madden me! What, love—
She love—yet marry you!
LANCIOTTO. It moves you much.
'Twas but a fleeting fancy, nothing more.