RITTA. Yes, lady; Rather than not remain.
RITTA. You wrong me, gentle mistress. Love like mine Does not ask questions of propriety, Nor stand on manners. I would do you good, Even while you smote me; I would push you back, With my last effort, from the crumbling edge Of some high rock o'er which you toppled me.
RITTA. I know--dear lady, Be not offended--
RITTA. You know I worship you; you know I'd walk Straight into ruin for a whim of yours; You know--
FRANCESCA. I know you act the fool. Talk sense!
FRANCESCA. Should he not? He is my brother.
RITTA. Yes, lady; for you love him, too. I've said it! Fling me to the carrion crows, Kill me by inches, boil me in the pot Count Guido promised me,--but, O, beware! Back, while you may. Make me the sufferer, But save yourself!
FRANCESCA. Now, are you not ashamed, To look me in the face with that bold brow? I am amazed!
RITTA. I am a woman, lady; I too have been in love; I know its ways, Its arts, and its deceits. Your frowning face, And seeming indignation, do not cheat. Your heart is in my hand.
FRANCESCA. Hence, Thou wanton-hearted minion! hence, I say!-- And never look me in the face again!-- Hence, thou insulting slave!
RITTA. [_Clinging to her._] O lady, lady--
RITTA. I have no friends--no one to love-- O, spare me!
RITTA. Was it for this I loved-- Cared for you more than my own happiness-- Ever at heart your slave--without a wish For greater recompense than your stray smiles?
RITTA. I am gone. Alas! God bless you, lady! God take care of you, When I am far away! Alas, alas! [_Exit weeping._
FRANCESCA. Poor girl!--but were she all the world to me, And held my future in her tender grasp, I'd cast her off, without a second thought, To savage death, for dear Paolo's sake! Paolo, hither! Now he comes to me; I feel his presence, though I see him not, Stealing upon me like the fervid glow Of morning sunshine. Now he comes too near-- He touches me--O heaven!
PAOLO. Our poem waits. I have been reading while you talked with Ritta. How did you get her off?
FRANCESCA. By some device. She will not come again.
PAOLO. I hate the girl: She seems to stand between me and the light. And now for the romance. Where left we off?
FRANCESCA. Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed Along the forest, in the youth of May. You marked the figure of the birds that sang Their melancholy farewell to the sun-- Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified-- Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's grave. Was it not there? No, no; 'twas where they sat Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish That neither uttered.