Part 18 (1/2)

MORANZONE

[after some hesitation]

You have sworn an oath, see that you keep that oath.

Boy, do you think I do not know your secret, Your traffic with the d.u.c.h.ess?

GUIDO

Silence, liar!

The very moon in heaven is not more chaste.

Nor the white stars so pure.

MORANZONE

And yet, you love her; Weak fool, to let love in upon your life, Save as a plaything.

GUIDO

You do well to talk: Within your veins, old man, the pulse of youth Throbs with no ardour. Your eyes full of rheum Have against Beauty closed their filmy doors, And your clogged ears, losing their natural sense, Have shut you from the music of the world.

You talk of love! You know not what it is.

MORANZONE

Oh, in my time, boy, have I walked i' the moon, Swore I would live on kisses and on blisses, Swore I would die for love, and did not die, Wrote love bad verses; ay, and sung them badly, Like all true lovers: Oh, I have done the tricks!

I know the partings and the chamberings; We are all animals at best, and love Is merely pa.s.sion with a holy name.

GUIDO

Now then I know you have not loved at all.

Love is the sacrament of life; it sets Virtue where virtue was not; cleanses men Of all the vile pollutions of this world; It is the fire which purges gold from dross, It is the fan which winnows wheat from chaff, It is the spring which in some wintry soil Makes innocence to blossom like a rose.

The days are over when G.o.d walked with men, But Love, which is his image, holds his place.

When a man loves a woman, then he knows G.o.d's secret, and the secret of the world.

There is no house so lowly or so mean, Which, if their hearts be pure who live in it, Love will not enter; but if b.l.o.o.d.y murder Knock at the Palace gate and is let in, Love like a wounded thing creeps out and dies.

This is the punishment G.o.d sets on sin.

The wicked cannot love.

[A groan comes from the DUKE's chamber.]

Ah! What is that?

Do you not hear? 'Twas nothing.

So I think That it is woman's mission by their love To save the souls of men: and loving her, My Lady, my white Beatrice, I begin To see a n.o.bler and a holier vengeance In letting this man live, than doth reside In b.l.o.o.d.y deeds o' night, stabs in the dark, And young hands clutching at a palsied throat.

It was, I think, for love's sake that Lord Christ, Who was indeed himself incarnate Love, Bade every man forgive his enemy.

MORANZONE

[sneeringly]