Frankly, I love thee.  I am jealous—­true! 
Suspicious—­true! distrustful of myself;—­
She knows all that.  Ay, and she likewise knows,
A single waking of her morning breath
Would blow these vapours off.  I would not take
The barren offer of a heartless hand,
If all the Indies cowered under it. 
Perhaps she loves another?  No; she said,
“I love you, Count, as well as any man;”
And laughed, as if she thought that precious wit. 
I turn her nonsense into argument,
And think I reason.  Shall I give her up? 
Rail at her heartlessness, and bid her go
Back to Ravenna?  But she clings to me,
At the least hint of parting.  Ah! ’tis sweet,
Sweeter than slumber to the lids of pain,
To fancy that a shadow of true love
May fall on this God-stricken mould of woe,
From so serene a nature.  Beautiful
Is the first vision of a desert brook,
Shining beneath its palmy garniture,
To one who travels on his easy way;
What is it to the blood-shot, aching eye
Of some poor wight who crawls with gory feet,
In famished madness, to its very brink;
And throws his sun-scorched limbs upon the cool
And humid margin of its shady strand,
To suck up life at every eager gasp? 
Such seems Francesca to my thirsting soul;
Shall I turn off and die?

    Enter PEPE.

  PEPE.  Good-morning, cousin!

  LANCIOTTO.  Good-morning to your foolish majesty!

  PEPE.  The same to your majestic foolery!

  LANCIOTTO.  You compliment!

PEPE.  I am a troubadour,
A ballad-monger of fine mongrel ballads,
And therefore running o’er with elegance. 
Wilt hear my verse?

  LANCIOTTO.  With patience?

PEPE.  No, with rapture. 
You must go mad—­weep, rend your clothes, and roll
Over and over, like the ancient Greeks,
When listening to Iliad.

LANCIOTTO.  Sing, then, sing! 
And if you equal Homer in your song,
Why, roll I must, by sheer compulsion.

PEPE.  Nay,
You lack the temper of the fine-eared Greek. 
You will not roll; but that shall not disgrace
My gallant ballad, fallen on evil times. [Sings.]

  My father had a blue-black head,
    My uncle’s head was reddish—­maybe,
  My mother’s hair was noways red,
    Sing high ho! the pretty baby!

Mark the simplicity of that!  ’Tis called
“The Babe’s Confession,” spoken just before
His father strangled him.

LANCIOTTO.  Most marvellous! 
You struggle with a legend worth your art.

PEPE.  Now to the second stanza.  Note the hint
I drop about the baby’s parentage: 
So delicately too!  A maid might sing,
And never blush at it.  Girls love these songs
Of sugared wickedness.  They’ll go miles about,
To say a foul thing in a cleanly way. 
A decent immorality, my lord,
Is art’s specific.  Get the passions up,
But never wring the stomach.