Summon him forth!
Say the Lady Violante waits his presence.
Lizzia
He will grow wroth with me—nor will he greet you.
Violante
Fears he, then, the Plague so? Is he too such
As dare not walk abroad nor breathe the air
Lest he should drink infection?
Lizzia
Not so, Lady, but he—
Violante
Tell him, then,
Our friend Boccaccio, the story-teller,
Has shaped a brave device against the Plague....
Before the sun climbs higher into day
And the night's Dead are heaped up in the streets
For buriers and priests to draw away,
A group of goodly ladies and gentlemen
Go forth to a sequestered country place
Remote from Florence and invisible Death.
There, in green gardens full of birds and leaves,
The blue, cloud-wandering heaven spread above,
We shall beguile the time with merriment,
Music and song and telling of many tales,
Trusting that Death, glutted with multitudes,
Will pass us by.... We need but Florio
To bring our perfect pleasure to the brim.
Lizzia [obstinately]