Where women talk too much.
Good-night, my lord.
Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase
Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon
Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams,
And hides her face behind a muslin mask
As harlots do when they go forth to snare
Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get
Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord,
It is but meet that I should wait on you
Who have so honoured my poor burgher’s house,
Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made
Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes
My wife and I will talk of this fair night
And its great issues.
Why, what a sword is this.
Ferrara’s temper, pliant as a snake,
And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel,
One need fear nothing in the moil of life.
I never touched so delicate a blade.
I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now.
We men of peace are taught humility,
And to bear many burdens on our backs,
And not to murmur at an unjust world,
And to endure unjust indignities.
We are taught that, and like the patient Jew
Find profit in our pain.
Yet I remember
How once upon the road to Padua
A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me,
I slit his throat and left him. I can bear
Dishonour, public insult, many shames,
Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he
Who filches from me something that is mine,
Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate
From which I feed mine appetite—oh! he
Perils his soul and body in the theft
And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay
We men are moulded!
GUIDO: Why do you speak like this?
SIMONE: I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword
Is better tempered than this steel of yours?
Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low
For you to cross your rapier against mine,
In jest, or earnest?
GUIDO: Naught would please me better
Than to stand fronting you with naked blade
In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword.
Fetch yours. Tonight will settle the great issue
Whether the Prince’s or the merchant’s steel
Is better tempered. Was not that your word?
Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir?
SIMONE: My lord, of all the gracious courtesies
That you have showered on my barren house
This is the highest.
Bianca, fetch my sword.
Thrust back that stool and table. We must have
An open circle for our match at arms,
And good Bianca here shall hold the torch
Lest what is but a jest grow serious.
BIANCA [To Guido]. Oh! kill him, kill him!
SIMONE: Hold the torch, Bianca. [They begin to fight.]
SIMONE: Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you?
[He is wounded by GUIDO.]
A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes.
Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing.
Your husband bleeds, ‘tis nothing. Take a cloth,
Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight.
More softly, my good wife. And be not sad,
I pray you be not sad. No; take it off.
What matter if I bleed? [Tears bandage off.]
Again! again!
[Simone disarms Guido]
My gentle Lord, you see that I was right
My sword is better tempered, finer steel,
But let us match our daggers.
BIANCA [to Guido] Kill him! kill him!
SIMONE: Put out the torch, Bianca. [Bianca puts out torch.]
Now, my good Lord,
Now to the death of one, or both of us,
Or all three it may be. [They fight.]
There and there.
Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip?
[Simone overpowers Guido and throws him down over table.]
GUIDO: Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat.
I am my father’s only son; the State
Has but one heir, and that false enemy France
Waits for the ending of my father’s line
To fall upon our city.
SIMONE: Hush! your father
When he is childless will be happier.
As for the State, I think our state of Florence
Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm.
Your life would soil its lilies.
GUIDO:
