DUCHESS: Alas! I have no right.
For I have stained the innocent hands of love
With spilt-out blood: there is blood on the ground,
I set it there.

GUIDO: Sweet, it was not yourself,
It was some devil tempted you. No, no,

DUCHESS (rising suddenly):
We are each our own devil, and we make
This world our hell.

GUIDO: Then let high Paradise
Fall into Tartarus! For I shall make
This world my heaven for a little space.
I love you, Beatrice.

DUCHESS: I am not worthy,
Being a thing of sin.

GUIDO: No, my Lord Christ,
The sin was mine, if any sin there was.
’Twas I who nurtured murder in my heart,
Sweetened my meats, seasoned my wine with it,
And in my fancy slew the accursed Duke
A hundred times a day. Why, had this man
Died half so often as I wished him to,
Death had been stalking ever through the house,
And murder had not slept.

But you, fond heart,
Whose little eyes grew tender over a whipt hound,
You whom the little children laughed to see
Because you brought the sunlight where you passed,
You the white angel of God’s purity,
This which men call your sin, what was it?

DUCHESS: Ay!
What was it? There are times it seems a dream,
An evil dream sent by an evil god,
And then I see the dead face in the coffin
And know it is no dream, but that my hand
Is red with blood, and that my desperate soul
Striving to find some haven for its love
From the wild tempest of this raging world,
Has wrecked its bark upon the rocks of sin.
What was it, said you? – murder merely? Nothing
But murder, horrible murder.

GUIDO: Nay, nay, nay,
’Twas but the passion-flower of your love
That in one moment leapt to terrible life,
And in one moment bare this gory fruit,
Which I had plucked in thought a thousand times.
My soul was murderous, but my hand refused;
Your hand wrought murder, but your soul was pure.
And so I love you, Beatrice, and let him
Who has no mercy for your stricken head,
Lack mercy up in heaven! Kiss me, sweet.

Tries to kiss her.

DUCHESS: No, no, your lips are pure, and mine are soiled,
For Guilt has been my paramour, and Sin
Lain in my bed: O Guido, if you love me
Get hence, for every moment is a worm
Which gnaws your life away: nay, sweet, get hence,
And if in after time you think of me,
Think of me as of one who loved you more
Than anything on earth; think of me, Guido,
As of a woman merely, one who tried
To make her life a sacrifice to love,
And slew love in the trial: Oh, what is that?
The bell has stopped from ringing, and I hear
The feet of armed men upon the stair.

GUIDO (aside): That is the signal for the guard to come.

DUCHESS: Why has the bell stopped ringing?