PAOLO.  Ah, now you strike the key! 
A mind just fitted to his history,
An equal balance ’twixt desert and fame. 
No future chronicler shall say of him,
His fame outran his merit; or his merit
Halted behind some adverse circumstance,
And never won the glory it deserved. 
My love might weary you, if I rehearsed
The simple beauty of his character;
His grandeur and his gentleness of heart,
His warlike fire and peaceful love, his faith,
His courtesy, his truth.  I’ll not deny
Some human weakness, to attract our love,
Harbours in him, as in the rest of us. 
Sometimes against our city’s enemies
He thunders in the distance, and devotes
Their homes to ruin.  When the brand has fallen,
He ever follows with a healing rain,
And in his pity shoulders by revenge. 
A thorough soldier, lady.  He grasps crowns,
While I pick at the laurel.

FRANCESCA.  Stay, my lord! 
I asked your brother’s value, with no wish
To hear you underrate yourself.  Your worth
May rise in passing through another’s lips. 
Lanciotto is perfection, then?

PAOLO.  To me: 
Others may think my brother over-nice
Upon the point of honour; over-keen
To take offence where no offence is meant;
A thought too prodigal of human life,
Holding it naught when weighed against a wrong;
Suspicious of the motives of his friends;
Distrustful of his own high excellence;
And with a certain gloom of temperament,
When thus disturbed, that makes him terrible
And rash in action.  I have heard of this;
I never felt it.  I distress you, lady? 
Perhaps I throw these points too much in shade,
By catching at an enemy’s report. 
But, then, Lanciotto said, “You’ll speak of me,
Not as I ought to be, but as I am.” 
He loathes deceit.

FRANCESCA.  That’s noble!  Have you done? 
I have observed a strange reserve, at times,
An over-carefulness in choosing words,
Both in my father and his nearest friends,
When speaking of your brother; as if they
Picked their way slowly over rocky ground,
Fearing to stumble.  Ritta, too, my maid,
When her tongue rattles on in full career,
Stops at your brother’s name, and with a sigh
Settles herself to dismal silence.  Count,
These things have troubled me.  From you I look
For perfect frankness.  Is there naught withheld?

PAOLO. [Aside.] O base temptation!  What if I betray
His crippled person—­imitate his limp—­
Laugh at his hip, his back, his sullen moods
Of childish superstition?—­tread his heart
Under my feet, to climb into his place?—­Use
his own warrant ’gainst himself; and say,
Because I loved her, and misjudged your jest,
Therefore I stole her?  Why, a common thief
Would hang for just such thinking!  Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
I reckon on her love, as if I held
The counsels of her bosom.  No, I swear,
Francesca would despise so mean a deed. 
Have I no honour either?  Are my thoughts
All bound by her opinions?