GIACOMO

And all

Forgotten! Oh, that I had never been!

Marzio's hate

Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men, But in your name, and as at your request, To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.

Only to talk?

GIACOMO

ORSINO

73

The moments which even now Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour May memorize their flight with death; ere then

They must have talked, and may perhaps have done,

And made an end.

GIACOMO

Listen! What sound is that?

ORSINO

The house-dog moans, and the beams crack; nought else.

GIACOMO

It is my wife complaining in her sleep; 80
I doubt not she is saying bitter things
Of me; and all my children round her
dreaming

That I deny them sustenance.

ORSINO

Whilst he

ACT IV

[Exeunt.

An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter CENCI.

CENCI

SHE comes not; yet I left her even now Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty

Of her delay; yet what if threats are vain?
Am I not now within Petrella's moat?
Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome?
Might I not drag her by the golden hair?
Stamp on her? keep her sleepless till her
brain

Be overworn? tame her with chains and famine?

Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone

What I most seek! No, 't is her stubborn

Husband! I pray, for thine own wretched sake,

Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee

Through crimes, and through the danger of his crimes,

Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden

grave.

And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray; As thou wouldst save thyself from death

and hell,

20

Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend In marriage; so that she may tempt thee

not

To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be.

I will pile up my silver and my gold;
My costly robes, paintings, and tapestries;
My parchments, and all records of my
wealth;

And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave
Of my possessions nothing but my name; 60
Which shall be an inheritance to strip
Its wearer bare as infamy. That done,
My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign
Into the hands of Him who wielded it;
Be it for its own punishment or theirs,
He will not ask it of me till the lash
Be broken in its last and deepest wound;
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet,
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me

make

Short work and sure.

LUCRETIA (stops him)

69

[Going.