Pia.
Madonna, kissed by the Duke!
Guido.
And I, O God, I might have honor too
Could I but break this prison where I drudge!
Pia.
Speak low, her sleep is light. Her road is hard
As well as thine. For all this year, since thou
Didst bring her to Rieto here to us,
Hath she lain on her bed, broken with pain,
This child that is thy wife and loveth thee.
Guido.
Aye, yes, 'tis true, she loveth me, she loveth me,
And I love her. 'Tis worse—add grief to care,
And Poesy fares worse.
Pia.
And she is grown most pale and still of late.
Guido.
Look, Pia, how she lieth there like death,
That far-off patience on her face. Now, now,
Surely I needs must make a song! And yet
I may not; ashes and floor-sweeping clog
My soul within me!
Pia.
Nay, let thy dreams pass. Look thou, how pale!
Dear Lord, how blue her little veins do shine!
Guido.
Thou art most kind, good neighbor, to come here
Helping our house. And it is very strange
That when we are so kind we cannot know
The heart also. For in my soul I hear
A bell summoning me always—
Pia.
If I should stew in milk the peas, maybe—
Do you think the child would eat it?
Guido.
For thy world is not my world, kind old friend.