GUIDO. Forget him quite. Come, come, escape from out this dismal life, As a bright butterfly breaks spider’s web, And nest with me among those rosy bowers, Where we will love, as though the lives we led Till yesterday were ghoulish dreams dispersed By the great dawn of limpid joyous life. BIANCA. Will I not come? GUIDO. O, make no question, come. They waste their time who ponder o’er bad dreams. We will away to hills, red roses clothe, And though the persons who did haunt that dream Live on, they shall by distance dwindled, seem No bigger than the smallest ear of corn That cowers at the passing of a bird, And silent shall they seem, out of ear-shot, Those voices that could jar, while we gaze back From rosy caves upon the hill-brow open, And ask ourselves if what we see is not A picture merely,—if dusty, dingy lives Continue there to choke themselves with malice. Wilt thou not come, Bianca? Wilt thou not? [_A sound on the stair_.] GUIDO. What’s that? [_The door opens_, _they separate guiltily_, _and the husband enters_.] SIMONE. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak. Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold nothing: Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son, Who hopes to wear it when his father dies, And hopes that will be soon. But who is this? Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless, Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen Upon a house without a host to greet him? I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house Lacking a host is but an empty thing And void of honour; a cup without its wine, A scabbard without steel to keep it straight, A flowerless garden widowed of the sun. Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin. BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither. SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me. Who is it then who with such courtly grace Deigns to accept our hospitalities? GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi. SIMONE. What! The son Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon I see from out my casement every night! Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here, Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife, Most honest if uncomely to the eye, Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you, As is the wont of women. GUIDO. Your gracious lady, Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars And robs Diana’s quiver of her beams Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies That if it be her pleasure, and your own, I will come often to your simple house. And when your business bids you walk abroad I will sit here and charm her loneliness Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch. What say you, good Simone?