Of that still cloister. But it was too hard;
My empty heart so hungered for my child!
For those dear eyes that look no scorn for me,
That voice that speaks respect and tenderness,
Even for me! My dove, my lily-flower,
My only stay in life. Oh, God! I thank thee
Thou hast left me this at least! [He weeps.
FIORDELISA.
Dear father!
You 're crying now; you must not cry,—you must not.
I cannot bear to see you cry.
BERTUCCIO.
Let be!
'T were better than to see me laugh.
FIORDELISA.
But wherefore?
You say you are so happy here, and yet
You never come but to weep bitter tears.
And I can but weep too, not knowing why.
Why are you sad? Oh, tell me,—tell me all!
BERTUCCIO.
I cannot. In this house I am thy father;
Out of it, what I am boots not to say;
Hated, perhaps, or envied; feared, I hope,
By many; scorned by more; and loved by none.
In this one innocent corner of the world
I would but be to thee a father,—something
August and sacred!
FIORDELISA.
And you are so, father.
