RIBERA.
Good ! she hath found rest ;
Poor child, she sadly lacked it. She had known
Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion;
Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine;
Her soft brow burned my lips. Could that boy read
The tokens of an overwearied spirit,
Strained past endurance, he had spared her still,
At any cost of silence. What is such love
To mine, that would outrival Roman heroes
"Watch mine arm crisp and shrivel in quick flame,
Or set a lynx to gnaw my heart away,
To save her from a needle-prick of pain,
Ay, or to please her ? At their worth she rates
Her wooers light as all-embracing air
Or universal sunshine. Luca, go
And tell Fiametta rather, bid the lass
Hither herself. [Exit LUCA.
He comes to pay me homage,
As would his royal father, if he pleased
To visit Naples ; yet she too shall see him.
She is part of all I think, of all I am ;
She is myself, no less than yon bright dream
Fixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.
Enter FIAMETTA.
FIAMETTA.
My lord, you called me?
