SCENE II.
A street near the Church of San Stefano; stage dark.
Enter Bertuccio, L., cloaked and masked.
BERTUCCIO.
The hour has struck,—they will be here anon,—
Trust them to keep tryst for a villainous deed.
I had need to whet the memory of my wrong,
Or my girl's angel face and innocent tongue
Had shaken even my steadfastness of purpose!
And Malatesta's wife has done her kindness,—
I would that she had not! But what's such slight service
To my huge wrong? Let me but think of that!
I grow too human near my child. I lack
The sharp sting of court scorn to spur the sides
Of my intent! With her I'm free to weep,
With them, I still must laugh,—still be their ape,
To mop and mow and wake their shallow mirth.
True, I can sometimes bite, as monkeys do.
They'll make mirth of that, too! O courtly sirs!
Sweet-spoken, stalwart gallants! if you knew
The hate that rankles underneath my motley,
The scorn that barbs my wit, the bitterness
That grins behind my laughter, you would start
And shudder o'er your cups, and cross yourselves
As if the devil were in your company!
Once my revenge achieved, I'll spurn my chain,
Fool it no more, but give what's left of life
To thought of her I've lost, and love of her
That yet is left me.
