Whose music seems to linger in my ears, Swore that you loved me, and I trusted you. I think there are many women in the world Who would have tempted you to kill the man. I did not. Yet I know that had I done so, I had not been thus humbled in the dust,
[_After a pause approaches him timidly_.]
I do not think you understand me, Guido: It was for your sake that I wrought this deed Whose horror now chills my young blood to ice, For your sake only. [_Stretching out her arm_.] Will you not speak to me? Love me a little: in my girlish life I have been starved for love, and kindliness Has passed me by.
I dare not look at you: You come to me with too pronounced a favour; Get to your tirewomen.
Ay, there it is! There speaks the man! yet had you come to me With any heavy sin upon your soul, Some murder done for hire, not for love, Why, I had sat and watched at your bedside All through the night-time, lest Remorse might come And pour his poisons in your ear, and so Keep you from sleeping! Sure it is the guilty, Who, being very wretched, need love most.
There is no love where there is any guilt.
No love where there is any guilt! O God, How differently do we love from men! There is many a woman here in Padua, Some workman’s wife, or ruder artisan’s, Whose husband spends the wages of the week In a coarse revel, or a tavern brawl, And reeling home late on the Saturday night, Finds his wife sitting by a fireless hearth, Trying to hush the child who cries for hunger, And then sets to and beats his wife because The child is hungry, and the fire black. Yet the wife loves him! and will rise next day With some red bruise across a careworn face, And sweep the house, and do the common service, And try and smile, and only be too glad If he does not beat her a second time Before her child!—that is how women love.
I think you will not drive me from your side. Where have I got to go if you reject me?— You for whose sake this hand has murdered life, You for whose sake my soul has wrecked itself Beyond all hope of pardon.
Get thee gone: The dead man is a ghost, and our love too, Flits like a ghost about its desolate tomb, And wanders through this charnel house, and weeps That when you slew your lord you slew it also. Do you not see?