NO more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk.
A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith!
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see.
It's different, preaching in basilicas,
But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do,
All that I am now, all I hope to be,--
Whence comes it save from fortune setting free
Body and soul the purpose to pursue,
My love, this is the bitterest, that thou---
Who art all truth, and who dost love me now
As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say---
Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me still
I dream of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?
All, that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes
Each in its tether
June was not over
Though past the fall,
And the best of her roses
Had yet to blow,
The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;