_Sebald._ "A thing"--there again--"a thing!" _Ottima._ Then, Venus' body, had we come upon My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close-- Would you have pored upon it? Why persist 105 In poring now upon it? For 'tis here As much as there in the deserted house; You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me, Now he is dead I hate him worse; I hate-- Dare you stay here? I would go back and hold 110 His two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse, Luca, than"-- _Sebald._ Off, off--take your hands off mine, 'Tis the hot evening--off! oh, morning, is it? _Ottima._ There's one thing must be done--you know what thing. Come in and help to carry. We may sleep 115 Anywhere in the whole wide house tonight. _Sebald._ What would come, think you, if we let him lie Just as he is? Let him lie there until The angels take him! He is turned by this Off from his face beside, as you will see. 120 _Ottima._ This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass. Three, four--four gray hairs! Is it so you said A plait of hair should wave across my neck? No--this way. _Sebald._ Ottima, I would give your neck, Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, 125 That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world, So Luca lives again!--aye, lives to sputter His fulsome dotage on you--yes, and feign Surprise that I return at eve to sup, When all the morning I was loitering here-- 130 Bid me dispatch my business and begone. I would-- _Ottima._ See! _Sebald._ No, I'll finish. Do you think I fear to speak the bare truth once for all? All we have talked of, is at bottom, fine To suffer; there's a recompense in guilt; 135 One must be venturous and fortunate-- What is one young for, else? In age we'll sigh O'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over; Still, we have lived; the vice was in its place. But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn 140 His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse-- Do lovers in romances sin that way? Why, I was starving when I used to call And teach you music, starving while you plucked me These flowers to smell! 145 _Ottima._ My poor lost friend!