Читать книгу A Double-Edged Sword - Brenda E. Novack - Страница 10

Scene: A Room in Lambertuccio’s Castle

As the curtain rises Beatrice is discovered pacing the room excitedly

Beatrice:

The sands have all run out, and still he tarries.

O what can make him so belated? I

Do fear some mishap hath befallen him.

[She stops suddenly and listens]

Can it be his footsteps?

[finds that there was no sound]

Troubled minds do thwart

The natural offices of Nature. [She continues to pace the room]

O if he comes not?

[Several taps are heard. She rushes to the door]

It is he at last! [Opens the door]

Uberto:

[still outside, cautiously protrudes his head inside]

Art thou alone?

Beatrice:

Yea, have no fears;

Father’s out and the maid is on an errand. [Uberto enters]

My love, how cruel thou art to tarry

So long! Methought that lovers do possess

More gentle hearts. But no: the fire of Love

Within thy breast must have expired, or else

How couldst thou buy aught else with the dear price

Of Love’s joy.

Uberto:

Let the warmth of my kisses

Rather prove that it hath waxed stronger,

Or if thou wilt but put thy hand unto

My heart and feel how it doth throb for thee.

But no! Its fire would surely scorch thy hand.

And this is wherefore Love hath led me

Hither, to lull it smart into the lap

Of Sleep, with thy soft looks, though soon, alack

To wake again with greater might. For oh!

The cause of this my ailment is my cure,

Like to that brazen serpent that God’s chosen

People erected in the sandy ocean. [kisses her]

Beatrice:

O if this kiss could live forever, that I

May cling to it and thus, remain in changeless

Bliss amidst capricious Fate’s Eternal

Inconstancy; or gazing into the Love-lit

Depths of thy dark eyes, to plunge in their

Infinitude until the very same

Abode of thy chaste soul, and with it

Mingle, and forget, as in the silent stream

Of Lethe, fears more dark than silent nights,

Conjured before my eyes in all shapes horrid.

For lived we not those holy moments

Stolen from the angels? (Not many may

More attain), then what remains to us

(Save death, to hold them back from Fate’s

Eternal thievery) than decline dire

And suffering if not estrangement?

Uberto:

Dear love, what wayward thoughts have slid into

Thy beautiful little head! How can light

And darkness dwell together in thy heart?

Thy fears are fancy-woven; and what reward

Have we to strain our weakling eyes in vain

Essay to pierce the mist of the morrow?

Let us enjoy the heaven-sent bliss ere ‘tis

Too late.

Beatrice:

‘Tis only wise to fear the tempest

When the sea doth seems most calm. O why