_Otti._ 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 In poring now upon it? For 't is 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 His two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse, Luca, than" ... _Seb._ Off, off--take your hands off mine, 'T is the hot evening--off! oh, morning is it? _Otti._ There 's one thing must be done; you know what thing. Come in and help to carry. We may sleep Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night. _Seb._ 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. _Otti._ 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. _Seb._ Ottima, I would give your neck, Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world, So Luca lives again!--ay, 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-- Bid me dispatch my business and begone. I would ... _Otti._ See! _Seb._ 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; 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 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! _Otti._ My poor lost friend! _Seb._ He gave me Life, nothing less: what if he did reproach My perfidy, and threaten, and do more-- Had he no right? What was to wonder at? He sat by us at table quietly: Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched? Could he do less than make pretence to strike? 'T is not the crime's sake--I 'd commit ten crimes Greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone! And you--O how feel you? Feel you for me?