oath.
MORANZONE
What of thy murdered father?
GUIDO
Dost thou think
My father would be glad to see me coming,
This old man’s blood still hot upon mine hands?
MORANZONE
Ay! he would laugh for joy.
GUIDO
I do not think so,
There is better knowledge in the other world;
Vengeance is God’s, let God himself revenge.
MORANZONE
Thou art God’s minister of vengeance.
GUIDO
No!
God hath no minister but his own hand.
I will not kill this man.
MORANZONE
Why are you here,
If not to kill him, then?
GUIDO
Lord Moranzone,
I purpose to ascend to the Duke’s chamber,
And as he lies asleep lay on his breast
The dagger and this writing; when he awakes
Then he will know who held him in his power
And slew him not: this is the noblest vengeance
Which I can take.
MORANZONE
You will not slay him?
GUIDO
No.
MORANZONE
Ignoble son of a noble father,
Who sufferest this man who sold that father
To live an hour.
GUIDO
‘Twas thou that hindered me;
I would have killed him in the open square,
The day I saw him first.
MORANZONE
It was not yet time;
Now it is time, and, like some green-faced girl,
Thou pratest of forgiveness.
GUIDO
No! revenge:
The right revenge my father’s son should take.
MORANZONE
You are a coward,
Take out the knife, get to the Duke’s chamber,
And bring me back his heart upon the blade.
When he is dead, then you can talk to me
Of noble vengeances.
GUIDO
Upon thine honour,
And by the love thou bearest my father’s name,
Dost thou think my father, that great gentleman,
That generous soldier, that most chivalrous lord,
Would have crept at night-time, like a common thief,
And stabbed an old man sleeping in his bed,
However he had wronged him: tell me that.
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 Duchess?
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 passion 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.
