SIMONE. I ask it humbly. We will talk to-night Of other things. I hear the Holy Father Has sent a letter to the King of France Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps, And make a peace in Italy, which will be Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody Than civil rapine or intestine feuds. GUIDO. Oh! we are weary of that King of France, Who never comes, but ever talks of coming. What are these things to me? There are other things Closer, and of more import, good Simone. BIANCA [_To Simone_]. I think you tire our most gracious guest. What is the King of France to us? As much As are your English merchants with their wool. * * * * * SIMONE. Is it so then? Is all this mighty world Narrowed into the confines of this room With but three souls for poor inhabitants? Ay! there are times when the great universe, Like cloth in some unskilful dyer’s vat, Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance That time is now! Well! let that time be now. Let this mean room be as that mighty stage Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives Become the stakes God plays for. I do not know Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me. And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen That bodes not good to any. Alas! my lord, How poor a bargain is this life of man, And in how mean a market are we sold! When we are born our mothers weep, but when We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one. [_Passes to back of stage_.] BIANCA. How like a common chapman does he speak! I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs, Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words Like water from a conduit. GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, He is not worthy of your thought or mine. The man is but a very honest knave Full of fine phrases for life’s merchandise, Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap, A windy brawler in a world of words. I never met so eloquent a fool. BIANCA. Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands!