LADY GIOVANNA.
Love? it _is_ love, love for my dying boy,
Moves me to ask it of you.
COUNT.
What? my time?
Is it my time? Well, I can give my time
To him that is a part of you, your son.
Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales,
Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch
The ghittern to some purpose.
LADY GIOVANNA.
No, not that!
I thank you heartily for that--and you,
I doubt not from your nobleness of nature,
Will pardon me for asking what I ask.
COUNT.
Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once
The wildest of the random youth of Florence
Before I saw you--all my nobleness
Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws
From you, and from my constancy to you.
No more, but speak.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I will. You know sick people,
More specially sick children, have strange fancies,
Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood
May work them grievous harm at times, may even
Hasten their end. I would you had a son!
It might be easier then for you to make
Allowance for a mother--her--who comes
To rob you of your one delight on earth.
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