Why, then, Beatrice,
All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours,
Although your hand is heavy now with gems
That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness.
Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose
Into a bud again?
BEATRICE. You love me not.
LARA. A coquette's song.
BEATRICE. I sing it.
LARA. A poor song.
BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much,
Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!
You do not deck me as becomes our state,
For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes
Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest--
A precious set! You're jealous, sir!
LARA. Not I.
I love you.
BEATRICE. Why, that is as easy said
As any three short words; takes no more breath
To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived
Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife,
And do not know your follies? I will wager
(If I could trap his countship into this!)
The rarest kisses I know how to give
Against the turquoise, that within a month
You'll grow so jealous--and without a cause,
Or with a reason thin as window glass--
That you will ache to kill me!
LARA.
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