FRANCESCA.  This is strange! 
Is Lanciotto’s name a spell to all? 
I ask a simple question, and straight you
Start to one side, and mutter to yourself,
And laugh, and groan, and play the lunatic,
In such a style that you astound me more
Than all the others.  It appears to me
I have been singled as a common dupe
By every one.  What mystery is this
Surrounds Count Lanciotto?  If there be
A single creature in the universe
Who has a right to know him as he is,
I am that one.

PAOLO.  I grant it.  You shall see,
And shape your judgment by your own remark. 
All that my honour calls for I have said.

FRANCESCA.  I am content.  Unless I greatly err,
Heaven made your breast the seat of honest thoughts. 
You know, my lord, that, once at Rimini,
There can be no retreat for me.  By you,
Here at Ravenna, in your brother’s name,
I shall be solemnly betrothed.  And now
I thus extend my maiden hand to you;
If you are conscious of no secret guilt,
Take it.

  PAOLO.  I do. [Takes her hand.

  FRANCESCA.  You tremble!

PAOLO.  With the hand,
Not with the obligation.

FRANCESCA.  Farewell, Count! 
’Twere cruel to tax your stock of compliments,
That waste their sweets upon a trammelled heart;
Go fly your fancies at some freer game. [Exit.

PAOLO.  O, Heaven, if I have faltered and am weak,
Tis from my nature!  Fancies, more accursed
Than haunt a murderer’s bedside, throng my brain—­
Temptations, such as mortal never bore
Since Satan whispered in the ear of Eve,
Sing in my ear—­and all, all are accursed! 
At heart I have betrayed my brother’s trust,
Francesca’s openly.  Turn where I will,
As if enclosed within a mirrored hall,
I see a traitor.  Now to stand erect,
Firm on my base of manly constancy;
Or, if I stagger, let me never quit
The homely path of duty, for the ways
That bloom and glitter with seductive sin! [Exit.

ACT III

SCENE I. Rimini.  A Room in the Castle. LANCIOTTO discovered reading.

LANCIOTTO.  O! fie, philosophy!  This Seneca
Revels in wealth, and whines about the poor! 
Talks of starvation while his banquet waits,
And fancies that a two hours’ appetite
Throws light on famine!  Doubtless he can tell,
As he skips nimbly through his dancing-girls,
How sad it is to limp about the world
A sightless cripple!  Let him feel the crutch
Wearing against his heart, and then I’d hear
This sage talk glibly; or provide a pad,
Stuffed with his soft philosophy, to ease
His aching shoulder.  Pshaw! he never felt,
Or pain would choke his frothy utterance.