[_Starts back_.] What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks As purple as a wound upon Christ’s side. Wine merely is it? I have heard it said When wine is spilt blood is spilt also, But that’s a foolish tale. My lord, I trust My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards Yield a more wholesome juice. GUIDO. I like it well, Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca. [BIANCA _drinks_.] Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, Matched with this draught were bitter! Good Simone, You do not share the feast. SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night. Some humour, or some fever in my blood, At other seasons temperate, or some thought That like an adder creeps from point to point, That like a madman crawls from cell to cell, Poisons my palate and makes appetite A loathing, not a longing. [_Goes aside_.] GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, This common chapman wearies me with words. I must go hence. To-morrow I will come. Tell me the hour. BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn! Until I see you all my life is vain. GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca, Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, Nor gaze at anything that does not show Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous Of what your vision feasts on. BIANCA. Oh! be sure Your image will be with me always. Dear Love can translate the very 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.