TORELLI.
Good-day, Sir Poet; stand aside, Sir Fool.
BERTUCCIO.
You are going in?
TORELLI.
Ay!
BERTUCCIO.
There's a shrewd hiatus
Needs filling at the table. You have War
And Love, but, lacking Poetry and Folly,
War is but butchery, and Love goes lame.
Tuck us beneath your wings, sweet Baldassare,
And you'll be trebly welcome.
TORELLI.
The Duke for once has shut his doors against
Both Poetry and Folly. He is cloistered
For grave affairs.
BERTUCCIO.
Tush! tell me not, sweet gossip.
Why, man, I know that there 's a petticoat—
And more, I know the wearer.
TORELLI.
Thou!
BERTUCCIO.
You've lost
The rarest sport. Ascolti and Ordelaffi
Have had their will of me. For once I'll own
You've turned the tables fairly on the fool!
That our Ginevra should be Fiordelisa,
