RITTA.  O! yes, indeed!  Once—­long ago—­I was
Just fool enough to tangle up my heart
With one of these same men.  ’Twas terrible! 
Morning or evening, waking or asleep,
I had no peace.  Sighs, groans, and standing tears,
Counted my moments through the blessed day. 
And then to this there was a dull, strange ache
Forever sleeping in my breast,—­a numbing pain,
That would not for an instant be forgot. 
O! but I loved him so, that very feeling
Became intolerable.  And I believed
This false Giuseppe, too, for all the sneers,
The shrugs and glances, of my intimates. 
They slandered me and him, yet I believed. 
He was a noble, and his love to me
Was a reproach, a shame, yet I believed. 
He wearied of me, tried to shake me off,
Grew cold and formal, yet I would not doubt. 
O! lady, I was true!  Nor till I saw
Giuseppe walk through the cathedral door
With Dora, the rich usurer’s niece, upon
The very arm to which I clung so oft,
Did I so much as doubt him.  Even then—­
More is my shame—­I made excuses for him. 
“Just this or that had forced him to the course: 
Perhaps, he loved me yet—­a little yet. 
His fortune, or his family, had driven
My poor Giuseppe thus against his heart. 
The low are sorry judges for the great. 
Yes, yes, Giuseppe loved me!” But at last
I did awake.  It might have been with less: 
There was no need of crushing me, to break
My silly dream up.  In the street, it chanced,
Dora and he went by me, and he laughed—­
A bold, bad laugh—­right in my poor pale face,
And turned and whispered Dora, and she laughed. 
Ah! then I saw it all.  I’ve been awake,
Ever since then, I warrant you.  And now
I only pray for him sometimes, when friends
Tell his base actions towards his hapless wife.—­
O!  I am lying—­I pray every night! [Weeps.

  FRANCESCA.  Poor Ritta. [Weeping.

RITTA.  No! blest Ritta!  Thank kind heaven,
That kept me spotless when he tempted me,
And my weak heart was pleading with his tongue. 
Pray, do not weep.  You spoil your eyes for me. 
But never love; O! it is terrible!

  FRANCESCA.  I’ll strive against it.

RITTA.  Do:  because, my lady,
Even a husband may be false, you know;
Ay, even to so sweet a wife as you. 
Men have odd tastes.  They’ll surfeit on the charms
Of Cleopatra, and then turn aside
To woo her blackamoor.  ’Tis so, in faith;
Or Dora’s uncle’s gold had ne’er outbid
The boundless measure of a love like mine. 
Think of it, lady, to weigh love with gold! 
What could be meaner?