_Dante._ Yet how much love is due to me, O Bice, who have loved you, as you well remember, even from your tenth year. But it is reported, and your words confirm it, that you are going to be married. _Beatrice._ If so, and if I could have laughed at that, and if my laughter could have estranged you from me, would you blame me? _Dante._ Tell me the truth. _Beatrice._ The report is general. _Dante._ The truth! the truth! Tell me, Bice. _Beatrice._ Marriages, it is said, are made in heaven. _Dante._ Is heaven then under the paternal roof? _Beatrice._ It has been to me hitherto. _Dante._ And now you seek it elsewhere. _Beatrice._ I seek it not. The wiser choose for the weaker. Nay, do not sigh so. What would you have, my grave pensive Dante? What can I do? _Dante._ Love me. _Beatrice._ I always did. _Dante._ Love me? O bliss of heaven! _Beatrice._ No, no, no! Forbear! Men's kisses are always mischievous and hurtful; everybody says it. If you truly loved me, you would never think of doing so. _Dante._ Nor even this! _Beatrice._ You forget that you are no longer a boy; and that it is not thought proper at your time of life to continue the arm at all about the waist. Beside, I think you would better not put your head against my bosom; it beats too much to be pleasant to you. Why do you wish it? why fancy it can do you any good? It grows no cooler; it seems to grow even hotter. Oh, how it burns! Go, go; it hurts me too: it struggles, it aches, it sobs. Thank you, my gentle friend, for removing your brow away; your hair is very thick and long; and it began to heat me more than you can imagine. While it was there, I could not see your face so well, nor talk with you so quietly. _Dante._ Oh, when shall we talk quietly in future? _Beatrice._ When I am married. I shall often come to visit my father. He has always been solitary since my mother's death, which happened in my infancy, long before you knew me. _Dante._ How can he endure the solitude of his house when you have left it? _Beatrice._ The very question I asked him. _Dante._ You did not then wish to ... to ... go away? _Beatrice._ Ah no! It is sad to be an outcast at fifteen. _Dante._ An outcast? _Beatrice._ Forced to leave a home. _Dante._ For another? _Beatrice._ Childhood can never have a second. _Dante._ But childhood is now over. _Beatrice._ I wonder who was so malicious as to tell my father that? He wanted me to be married a whole year ago. _Dante._ And, Bice, you hesitated? _Beatrice._ No; I only wept. He is a dear good father. I never disobeyed him but in those wicked tears; and they ran the faster the more he reprehended them. _Dante._ Say, who is the happy youth? _Beatrice._ I know not who ought to be happy if you are not. _Dante._ I? _Beatrice._ Surely you deserve all happiness. _Dante._ Happiness! any happiness is denied me. Ah, hours of childhood! bright hours! what fragrant blossoms ye unfold! what bitter fruits to ripen!