Ah, dear love,
I am so wounded by that bolt myself
That with untended wounds I lie a-dying,
Unless you cure me, dear Physician.
Duchess
I would not have you cured; for I am sick
With the same malady.
Guido
Oh, how I love you!
See, I must steal the cuckoo’s voice, and tell
The one tale over.
Duchess
Tell no other tale!
For, if that is the little cuckoo’s song,
The nightingale is hoarse, and the loud lark
Has lost its music.
Guido
Kiss me, Beatrice!
[She takes his face in her hands and bends down and kisses him; a loud knocking then comes at the door, and Guido leaps up; enter a Servant.]