LANCIOTTO. You and I, perchance, Joining our forces, may prevail at last. They call love like a battle. As for me, I'm not a soldier equal to such wars, Despite my arduous schooling. Tutor me In the best arts of amorous strategy. I am quite raw, Paolo. Glances, sighs, Sweets of the lip, and arrows of the eye, Shrugs, cringes, compliments, are new to me; And I shall handle them with little art. Will you instruct me?
PAOLO. Conquer for yourself. Two captains share one honour: keep it all. What if I ask to share the spoils?
LANCIOTTO. [_Laughing._] Ha! ha! I'll trust you, brother. Let us go to her: Francesca is neglected while we jest. I know not how it is, but your fair face, And noble figure, always cheer me up, More than your words; there's healing in them, too, For my worst griefs. Dear brother, let us in. [_Exeunt._
_The Same. A Chamber in the Same._ FRANCESCA _and_ RITTA _discovered at the bridal toilet._
RITTA. [_Sings._] Ring high, ring high! to earth and sky; A lady goes a-wedding; The people shout, the show draws out, And smiles the bride is shedding.
No bell for you, ye ragged few; A beggar goes a-wedding; The people sneer, the thing's so queer, And tears the bride is shedding.
Ring low, ring low! dull bell of woe, One tone will do for either; The lady glad, and beggar sad, Have both lain down together.
RITTA. I scarce knew I sang. I'm weary of this wreath. These orange-flowers Will never be adjusted to my taste: Strive as I will, they ever look awry. My fingers ache!
FRANCESCA. Not more than my poor head. There, leave them so.
FRANCESCA. They are but fading things, not worth your pains: They'll scarce outlive the marriage merriment. Ritta, these flowers are hypocrites; they show An outside gayety, yet die within, Minute by minute. You shall see them fall, Black with decay, before the rites are o'er.
FRANCESCA. Fie, flatterer! White silk and laces, pearls and orange-flowers, Would do as much for any one.
RITTA. No, no! You give them grace, they nothing give to you. Why, after all, you make the wreath look well; But somewhat dingy, where it lies against Your pulsing temple, sullen with disgrace. Ah! well, your Count should be the proudest man That ever led a lady into church, Were he a modern Alexander. Poh! What are his trophies to a face like that?