Sweet, women make it true. There are men who paint pictures, and carve statues, Paul of Verona and the dyer’s son, Or their great rival, who, by the sea at Venice, Has set God’s little maid upon the stair, White as her own white lily, and as tall, Or Raphael, whose Madonnas are divine Because they are mothers merely; yet I think Women are the best artists of the world, For they can take the common lives of men Soiled with the money-getting of our age, And with love make them beautiful. DUCHESS Ah, dear, I wish that you and I were very poor; The poor, who love each other, are so rich. GUIDO Tell me again you love me, Beatrice. DUCHESS [_fingering his collar_] How well this collar lies about your throat. [LORD MORANZONE _looks through the door from the corridor outside_.] GUIDO Nay, tell me that you love me. DUCHESS I remember, That when I was a child in my dear France, Being at Court at Fontainebleau, the King Wore such a collar. GUIDO Will you not say you love me? DUCHESS [_smiling_] He was a very royal man, King Francis, Yet he was not royal as you are. Why need I tell you, Guido, that I love you? [_Takes his head in her hands and turns his face up to her_.] Do you not know that I am yours for ever, Body and soul? [_Kisses him_, _and then suddenly catches sight of_ MORANZONE _and leaps up_.] Oh, what is that? [MORANZONE _disappears_.] GUIDO What, love? DUCHESS Methought I saw a face with eyes of flame Look at us through the doorway. GUIDO Nay, ’twas nothing: The passing shadow of the man on guard. [_The_ DUCHESS _still stands looking at the window_.] ’Twas nothing, sweet. DUCHESS Ay! what can harm us now, Who are in Love’s hand? I do not think I’d care Though the vile world should with its lackey Slander Trample and tread upon my life; why should I? They say the common field-flowers of the field Have sweeter scent when they are trodden on Than when they bloom alone, and that some herbs Which have no perfume, on being bruiséd die With all Arabia round them; so it is With the young lives this dull world seeks to crush, It does but bring the sweetness out of them, And makes them lovelier often. And besides, While we have love we have the best of life: Is it not so? GUIDO Dear, shall we play or sing? I think that I could sing now. DUCHESS Do not speak, For there are times when all existences Seem narrowed to one single ecstasy, And Passion sets a seal upon the lips. GUIDO Oh, with mine own lips let me break that seal! You love me, Beatrice? DUCHESS Ay! is it not strange I should so love mine enemy? GUIDO Who is he? DUCHESS Why, you: that with your shaft did pierce my heart! Poor heart, that lived its little lonely life Until it met your arrow. GUIDO