Dante. Love me? O bliss of heaven!
Beatrice. No, no, no! Forbear! Men’s kisses are always mischievous and hurtful; everybody says it. If you truly loved me, you would never think of doing so.
Dante. Nor even this!
Beatrice. You forget that you are no longer a boy; and that it is not thought proper at your time of life to continue the arm at all about the waist. Beside, I think you would better not put your head against my bosom; it beats too much to be pleasant to you. Why do you wish it? why fancy it can do you any good? It grows no cooler; it seems to grow even hotter. Oh, how it burns! Go, go; it hurts me too: it struggles, it aches, it sobs. Thank you, my gentle friend, for removing your brow away; your hair is very thick and long; and it began to heat me more than you can imagine. While it was there, I could not see your face so well, nor talk with you so quietly.
Dante. Oh, when shall we talk quietly in future?
Beatrice. When I am married. I shall often come to visit my father. He has always been solitary since my mother’s death, which happened in my infancy, long before you knew me.
Dante. How can he endure the solitude of his house when you have left it?
Beatrice. The very question I asked him.
Dante. You did not then wish to ... to ... go away?
Beatrice. Ah no! It is sad to be an outcast at fifteen.