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_Petrarca._ And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair!
_Sancia._ You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine, To pledge him in!
_Petrarca._ The tankards bubble o'er!
(_They go to the table._)
And see, they are wreathed of April, With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.
We'll hold symposium, as baccha.n.a.ls!
_Sancia._ And that is--what? some dull and silly show Out of your sallow books?
_Petrarca._ Those books were writ With ink of the G.o.ds, my Sancia, upon Papyri of the stars!
_Sancia._ And--long ago?
Ha! long ago?
_Petrarca._ Returnless centuries!
_Sancia_ (_contemptuously_). Who loves the past, loves mummies and their dust-- And he will mould!
Who loves the future loves what may not be, And feeds on fear.
Only one flower has Time--its name is Now!
Come, pluck it! pluck it!
_Lello._ _Brava_, maid! the Now!
_Sancia_ (_dancing_). Come, pluck it! pluck it!
_Petrarca._ By my soul, I will!
(_Seizes her again._)
It grows upon these lips--and if to-night They leant out over the brink of h.e.l.l, I would.
(_She breaks from him._)
_Filippa._ Enough! the wine! the wine!
_Sancia._ O ever-thirsty And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!
(_She lifts a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup._)
We'll drink to Messer Petrarca-- Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude.
May he long revel in the courts of Venus!
_All_ (_drinking_). Aih, long!
_Petrarca._ As long as Sancia enchants them!
_Filippa._ I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.
_Sancia._ And, to the rack, if faithless? This Filippa!
Messer Petrarca, should she not be made High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil, Whose breath of life is oaths?...
But, swear it! ... by the Saints!
Who were great sinners all!
And by the bones of every monk or nun Who ever darkened the world!
_Lello._ Or ever shall!
(_A pause._)
_Petrarca._ I'll swear your eyes are singing Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia, Like nightingales in the wood.
_Sancia._ Pah! Messer Poet ...
Such words as those you vent without an end-- To the Lady Laura!
_Petrarca._ Stop!
(_Grows pale._)
Not _her_ name--here!
(_All have sat down; he rises._)
_Sancia._ O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?
(_To the rest--rising:_)
Shall we depart, that he may still indite them?
"To Laura--On the Vanity of Pa.s.sion"?
"To Laura--Unrelenting"?
"To Laura--Whose Departing Darkens the Sky"?
(_Laughs._)
"To Laura--Who Deigns Not a Single Tear"?
(_ORSO enters._)
Shall we depart?
_Lello._ Peace! Sancia.
_Sancia._ Ah-ha!
(_Moves away._)
_Petrarca_ (_still tensely--to ORSO_). Speak.
