OR, THE ANGEL OF VENICE 
91 
 
So Duke, decide !  I say these red poppies lack 
The juices of Cathay. 
MORTADELLO. 
Ah !  you are on the track. 
’Tis the white poppy holds poison and death. 
MONICA. 
 
Ah, well ! 
The whitest soul enfolds all mysteries of hell. 
ALESSANDRO.  Ah !  there’s a mystic’s truth. 
MONICA. 
 
Saint Paul infers the same. 
All beauty and all youth but feed the eternal flame. 
Saints know, and only saints, the horrors of the soul, 
Its foul and fiery taints, its nigromancer’s scroll. 
Kneel, and love God.  Enough if you would fathom hell ! 
The Path is straight and rough. 
MORTADELLO. 
If only it end well. 
For me the easy way has always proved the best. 
MONICA.  So it may seem to-day, but death’s a surer test. 
ALESSANDRO.  O !  we are all oppressed by this dull haze 
that hangs. 
I laugh at gibe or jest—and only show my fangs. 
If God would send an air to stir the slack lagoon, 
We should be flinging care, a bubble, to the moon. 
MORTADELLO.  Maybe ;  for still the scroll of heaven’s anger 
lowers. 
MONICA.  [To LUCREZIA.]  Come, sweetheart, shall we stroll 
awhile among the flowers ? 
We’ll leave the men together to prattle politics. 
LUCREZIA.  And scandal. 
MONICA. 
And the weather. 
ALESSANDRO. 
 
Ah, we shall try to fix 
Fresh bolts to our crossbows. 
MONICA. 
And we to back cuirass