Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous [7]
meanest thing Into a sign of sweet remembrances. But come before the lark with its shrill song Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand Upon the balcony.
GUIDO. And by a ladder Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, Like snow upon a rose-tree.
BIANCA. As you will. You know that I am yours for love or Death.
GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house.
SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo's bell Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon, Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile. I fear we may not see you here again, And that fear saddens my too simple heart.
GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand Most constant in my friendship, But to-night I go to mine own home, and that at once. To-morrow, sweet Bianca.
SIMONE. Well, well, so be it. I would have wished for fuller converse with you, My new friend, my honourable guest, But that it seems may not be.
And besides I do not doubt your father waits for you, Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think, Are his one child? He has no other child. You are the gracious pillar of his house, The flower of a garden full of weeds. Your father's nephews do not love him well So run folks' tongues in Florence. I meant but that. Men say they envy your inheritance And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes As Ahab looked on Naboth's goodly field. But that is but the chatter of a town 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. To-night 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
GUIDO. And by a ladder Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, Like snow upon a rose-tree.
BIANCA. As you will. You know that I am yours for love or Death.
GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house.
SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo's bell Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon, Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile. I fear we may not see you here again, And that fear saddens my too simple heart.
GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand Most constant in my friendship, But to-night I go to mine own home, and that at once. To-morrow, sweet Bianca.
SIMONE. Well, well, so be it. I would have wished for fuller converse with you, My new friend, my honourable guest, But that it seems may not be.
And besides I do not doubt your father waits for you, Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think, Are his one child? He has no other child. You are the gracious pillar of his house, The flower of a garden full of weeds. Your father's nephews do not love him well So run folks' tongues in Florence. I meant but that. Men say they envy your inheritance And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes As Ahab looked on Naboth's goodly field. But that is but the chatter of a town 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. To-night 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