Page:Victor Hugo's Works (Guernsey Edition) v14.djvu/88

66 Last night so hard,—your 'tendance so ungentle?

I am your prisoner, fairest,—not you mine.

Then let me go!

Not till you know at least

What you will lose by going. All Faenza

Is mine, and she I favour may command

Whate'er Faenza holds of wealth or pleasure.

I'll pour them at her feet, and after fling

Myself there too, to woo a gracious word!

What's life, ungraced by love?—a dismal sky

Without sun, moon, or starlight! 'T is a cup

Drained of the wine that reddened in its gold!

A lute shorn of its strings,—a table stripped

Of all its festal meats,—mere life in death

A jewel like thy beauty is not meet

To be shut in a chest; it should be set

To shine in princely robes,—to grace a crown.

I would set thee in mine.

Stand back, my lord!

Why, little fool, I would not harm a hair

On thy fair head. Think what thy life has been!

How dull and dark and dreary! It shall be

As bright and glad and sunny as the prime

Of summer flowers. Only repel not joy

Because it comes borne in the hand of Love!

Oh, you profane that name! Is Love the friend

Of night and violence and robbery?