Bianca. I am my father’s daughter, in his eyes
A home-bred girl who has been taught to spin.
He never seems to think I have a face
Which makes you gallants turn where’er I pass.
Guido. Thy night is darker than I dreamed, bright Star.
Bianca. He waits, stands by, and mutters to himself,
And never enters with a frank address
To any company. His eyes meet mine
And with a shudder I am sure he counts
The cost of what I wear.
Guido. Forget him quite.
Come, come, escape from out this dismal life,
As a bright butterfly breaks spider’s web,
And nest with me among those rosy bowers,
Where we will love, as though the lives we led
Till yesterday were ghoulish dreams dispersed
By the great dawn of limpid joyous life.
Bianca. Will I not come?
Guido. O, make no question, come.
They waste their time who ponder o’er bad dreams.
We will away to hills, red roses clothe,
And though the persons who did haunt that dream
Live on, they shall by distance dwindled, seem
No bigger than the smallest ear of corn
That cowers at the passing of a bird,
And silent shall they seem, out of ear-shot,
Those voices that could jar, while we gaze back
From rosy caves upon the hill-brow open,
And ask ourselves if what we see is not
A picture merely,—if dusty, dingy lives
Continue there to choke themselves with malice.
Wilt thou not come, Bianca? Wilt thou not?
[A sound on the stair.]
guido. What’s that?
[The door opens, they separate guiltily, and the husband enters.]
Simone. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better
To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak.
Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold nothing:
Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son,
Who hopes to wear it when his father dies,
And hopes that will be soon.