White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder
on the very tip-top o' the mountain.
COUNT.
And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother,
I have seen it like the snow on the moraine.
ELISABETTA:
How can your lordship say so? There my lord!
[_Lays cloth_.
O my dear son, be not unkind to me.
And one word more. [_Going--returns_.
COUNT (_touching guitar_).
Good! let it be but one.
ELISABETTA.
Hath she return'd thy love?
COUNT.
Not yet!
ELISABETTA.
And will she?
COUNT (_looking at_ LADY GIOVANNA).
I scarce believe it!
ELISABETTA.
Shame upon her then! [_Exit_.
COUNT (_sings_).
'Dead mountain flowers'----
Ah well, my nurse has broken
The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken
My china bowl. My memory is as dead.
[_Goes and replaces guitar_.
Strange that the words at home with me so long
Should fly like bosom friends when needed most.
So by your leave if you would hear the rest,
The writing.
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