Guido. Dispute no more, witty, divine Bianca;
Dispute no more. See I have brought my lute!
Close lock the door. We will sup with the moon
Like Persian princes, that, in Babylon
Sup in the hanging gardens of the king.
I know an air that can suspend the soul
As high in heaven as those towered-gardens hang.
Bianca. My husband may return, we are not safe.
Guido. Didst thou not say that he would sleep from home?
Bianca. He was not sure, he said it might be so.
He was not sure—and he would send my aunt
To sleep with me, if he did so decide,
And she has not yet come.
Guido [starting] Hark, what’s that?
[They listen, the sound of Maria’s voice in anger with some one is faintly heard.]
Bianca. It is Maria scolds some gossip crone.
Guido. I thought the other voice had been a man’s.
Bianca. All still again, old crones are often gruff.
You should be gone, my lord.
Guido. O, sweet Bianca!
How can I leave thee now! Thy beauty made
Two captives of my eyes, and they were mad
To feast them on thy form, but now thy wit,
The liberated perfume of a bud,
Which while a bud seemed perfect, but now is
That which can make its former self forgot:
How can I leave the flower who loved the leaf?
Till now I was the richest prince in Florence,
I am a lover now would shun its throngs,
And put away all state and seek retreat
At Bellosguardo or Fiesole,
Where roses in their fin’st profusion hide
Some marble villa whose cool walls have rung
A laughing echo to Decameron,
And where thy laughter shall as gaily sound.
Say thou canst love or with a silent kiss
Instil that balmy knowledge on my soul.