And this dear Cesare,
You will no more reproach him,
When he grows dull and drowses in the sun:
We let our lions drowse.
ALEXANDER.
[Eating the fruit.] Delicious!
So cordial in its essence it revives,
But sets the senses light enough to slumber.
We let our lions drowse ...
I am drowsing now;
A midsummer sweet napping. Guard my rest,
Bright angels!
Nay, Alfonso, do not budge.
I shall be fast asleep.
[The Pope falls asleep; at intervals he snores.
LUCREZIA.
[To Alfonso.] Dear Blessèdness,
How could you flee from him? Look, there is kindness
In every crease of his face; look at his lips
That almost bubble in his sleep with mirth
And comfort that he takes in every pleasure.
He never could make sorrowful, Alfonso.
ALFONSO.
I did not flee from him.
LUCREZIA.
But you make sorrow,
Alfonso, with your fears. You are growing restless,
Restless again.
On this midsummer-day
When even the little demons of the wood
Are turned delighted into lovers’ elves,
When all things take enchantment, even sin,
And pardon waits if one should sin too deep
[Pointing to the Pope.] Of Heaven itself, shall we not be content?
Shall we not cease from talking?