Then keep your wreath, But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still. I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift I ask for, to _my_ mind and at this present Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. COUNT. It should be love that thus outvalues all. You speak like love, and yet you love me not. I have nothing in this world but love for you. LADY GIOVANNA. Love? it _is_ love, love for my dying boy, Moves me to ask it of you. COUNT. What? my time? Is it my time? Well, I can give my time To him that is a part of you, your son. Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales, Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch The ghittern to some purpose. LADY GIOVANNA. No, not that! I thank you heartily for that—and you, I doubt not from your nobleness of nature, Will pardon me for asking what I ask. COUNT. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once The wildest of the random youth of Florence Before I saw you—all my nobleness Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws From you, and from my constancy to you. No more, but speak. LADY GIOVANNA. I will. You know sick people, More specially sick children, have strange fancies, Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood May work them grievous harm at times, may even Hasten their end. I would you had a son! It might be easier then for you to make Allowance for a mother—her—who comes To rob you of your one delight on earth. How often has my sick boy yearn’d for this! I have put him off as often; but to-day I dared not—so much weaker, so much worse For last day’s journey. I was weeping for him; He gave me his hand: “I should be well again If the good Count would give me——” COUNT. Give me. LADY GIOVANNA. His falcon. COUNT (_starts back_). My falcon! LADY GIOVANNA. Yes, your falcon, Federigo! COUNT. Alas, I cannot! LADY GIOVANNA. Cannot? Even so! I fear’d as much. O this unhappy world! How shall I break it to him? how shall I tell him? The boy may die: more blessed were the rags Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms For her sick son, if he were like to live, Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. I was to blame—the love you said you bore me— My lord, we thank you for your entertainment, [_With a stately curtsey._ And so return—Heaven help him!—to our son. [_Turns._ COUNT (_rushes forward_).