Classic Poem

  Giul. She 's proud; but she's a woman, and shall be
Thine own—dost hear?—thine own!
  Jac. Estremaduran!
If now thou mock'st me, thou had'st better pull
The burning sky upon thee!
  Giul. Listen to me.
She's not (proud as she seems) all arrogance.
I know that she at times will sigh,—and weep;
Tangle blue love-knots; and sing out, by night,
The painfullest ditties—ha, ha, ha!
  Jac. Great lady!
Canst thou be sad?—then I forgive thee all!
  Giul. Immedicable fool! Sickness can't cure thee.
  Jac. Oh, Giulio, Giulio! while a sand is falling,
We turn from hate to pity. I, who late
Abhorr'd the crimsoning pride upon her cheek,
Now read in it a different history.
Urge me no more. Henceforth I am her friend.