Last night so hard,—your 'tendance so ungentle?
I am your prisoner, fairest,—not you mine.
FIORDELISA.
Then let me go!
MANFREDI.
Not till you know at least
What you will lose by going. All Faenza
Is mine, and she I favour may command
Whate'er Faenza holds of wealth or pleasure.
I'll pour them at her feet, and after fling
Myself there too, to woo a gracious word!
What's life, ungraced by love?—a dismal sky
Without sun, moon, or starlight! 'T is a cup
Drained of the wine that reddened in its gold!
A lute shorn of its strings,—a table stripped
Of all its festal meats,—mere life in death
A jewel like thy beauty is not meet
To be shut in a chest; it should be set
To shine in princely robes,—to grace a crown.
I would set thee in mine. [Approaching her.
FIORDELISA.
Stand back, my lord!
MANFREDI.
Why, little fool, I would not harm a hair
On thy fair head. Think what thy life has been!
How dull and dark and dreary! It shall be
As bright and glad and sunny as the prime
Of summer flowers. Only repel not joy
Because it comes borne in the hand of Love!
FIORDELISA.
Oh, you profane that name! Is Love the friend
Of night and violence and robbery?
