An early habit to such men as I.
But you—­ah! there’s the sorrow—­whom I loved
An infant in your cradle; you who grew
Up in my heart, with every inch you gained;
You whom I loved for every quality,
Good, bad, and common, in your natural stock;
Ay, for your very beauty!  It is strange, you’ll say,
For such a crippled horror to do that,
Against the custom of his kind!  O! yes,
I love, and you betray me!

PAOLO.  Lanciotto,
This is sheer frenzy.  Join your bride.

LANCIOTTO.  I’ll not! 
What, go to her, to feel her very flesh
Crawl from my touch?—­to hear her sigh and moan,
As if God plagued her?  Must I come to that? 
Must I endure your hellish mystery
With my own wife, and roll my eyes away
In sentimental bliss?  No, no! until
I go to her, with confident belief
In her integrity and candid love,
I’ll shun her as a leper. [Alarm-bells toll.

  MALATESTA.  What is that?

    Enter, hastily, a MESSENGER in disorder.

  MESSENGER.  My lord, the Ghibelins are up—­

LANCIOTTO.  And I
Will put them down again!  I thank thee, Heaven,
For this unlooked-for aid! [Aside.

  MALATESTA.  What force have they?

LANCIOTTO.  It matters not,—­nor yet the time, place, cause,
Of their rebellion.  I would throttle it,
Were it a riot, or a drunken brawl!

  MALATESTA.  Nay, son, your bride—­

LANCIOTTO.  My bride will pardon me;
Bless me, perhaps, as I am going forth;—­
Thank me, perhaps, if I should ne’er return. [Aside.]
A soldier’s duty has no bridals in it.

PAOLO.  Lanciotto, this is folly.  Let me take
Your usual place of honour.

LANCIOTTO. [Laughing.] Ha! ha! ha! 
What! thou, a tilt-yard soldier, lead my troops! 
My wife will ask it shortly.  Not a word
Of opposition from the new-made bride? 
Nay, she looks happier.  O! accursed day,
That I was mated to an empty heart! [Aside.

  MALATESTA.  But, son—­

  LANCIOTTO.  Well, father?

PEPE.  Uncle, let him go. 
He’ll find it cooler on a battle-field
Than in his—­

  LANCIOTTO.  Hark! the fool speaks oracles. 

You, soldiers, who are used to follow me,
And front our charges, emulous to bear
The shock of battle on your forward arms,—­
Why stand ye in amazement?  Do your swords
Stick to their scabbards with inglorious rust? 
Or has repose so weakened your big hearts,
That you can dream with trumpets at your ears? 
Out with your steel!  It shames me to behold
Such tardy welcome to my war-worn blade! [Draws.]
                                     [The KNIGHTS and SOLDIERS draw.]
Ho! draw our forces out!  Strike camp, sound drums,
And set us on our marches!  As I live,
I pity the next foeman who relies
On me for mercy!  Farewell! to you all—­
To all alike—­a soldier’s short farewell! [Going.]