FRANCESCA. That pleases me. 'Tis flattering if our--friends appreciate Our nicer feelings.
FRANCESCA. Ritta, my gloves.--Ah! yes, I have them on; Though I'm not quite prepared. Arrange my veil; It folds too closely. That will do; retire. [RITTA _retires._] So, Count Paolo, you have come, hot haste, To lead me to the church,--to have your share In my undoing? And you came, in sooth, Because they sent you? You are very tame! And if they sent, was it for you to come?
PAOLO. Lady, I do not understand this scorn. I came, as is my duty, to escort My brother's bride to him. When next you're called, I'll send a lackey.
PAOLO. With reason: I would not appear to you Low or contemptible.
PAOLO. No! if you press me further, I will say A word to madden you.--Stand still! You stray Around the margin of a precipice. I know what pleasure 'tis to pluck the flowers That hang above destruction, and to gaze Into the dread abyss, to see such things As may be safely seen. Tis perilous: The eye grows dizzy as we gaze below, And a wild wish possesses us to spring Into the vacant air. Beware, beware! Lest this unholy fascination grow Too strong to conquer!
FRANCESCA. You talk wildly, Count; There's not a gleam of sense in what you say; I cannot hit your meaning.
FRANCESCA. Count, you are cruel! [_Weeps._
PAOLO. O! no; I would be kind. But now, while reason over-rides my heart, And seeming anger plays its braggart part-- In heaven's name, come!
FRANCESCA. One word--one question more: Is it your wish this marriage should proceed?
FRANCESCA. Come on! You shall not take my hand: I'll walk alone--now, and forever!
[_Exeunt_ PAOLO _and_ FRANCESCA, _with_ PAGES.
RITTA. O! misery, misery!--it is plain as day-- She loves Paolo! Why will those I love Forever get themselves ensnared, and heaven Forever call on me to succor them? Here was the mystery, then--the sighs and tears, The troubled slumbers, and the waking dreams! And now she's walking through the chapel-door, Her bridal robe above an aching heart, Dressed up for sacrifice. Tis terrible! And yet she'll smile and do it. Smile, for years, Until her heart breaks; and the nurses ask The doctor of the cause. He'll answer, too, In hard thick Latin, and believe himself. O! my dear mistress! Heaven, pray torture me! Send back Giuseppe, let him ruin me, And scorn me after; but, sweet heaven, spare her! I'll follow her. O! what a world is this! [_Exit._
