Ottima. There, trudges on his business from the Duomo
Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood
And bare feet—always in one pace at church,
Close under the stone wall by the south entry.
I used to take him for a brown cold piece
Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose
To let me pass—at first, I say, I used—
Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me,
I rather should account the plastered wall
A piece of him, so chilly does it strike.
This, Sebald?
Sebald.⁠No—the white wine—the white wine!
Well, Ottima, I promised no new year
Should rise on us the ancient shameful way,
Nor does it rise: pour on! To your black eyes!
Do you remember last damned New Year's day?
Ottima. You brought those foreign prints. We looked at them
Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme
To get him from the fire. Nothing out saying
His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up
To hunt them out.
Sebald.⁠'Faith, he is not alive
To fondle you before my face!
Ottima.⁠Do you
Fondle me, then! who means to take your life
For that, my Sebald?
Sebald.⁠Hark you, Ottima,
One thing's to guard against. We'll not make much
One of the other—that is, not make more
Parade of warmth, childish officious coil,
Than yesterday—as if, Sweet, I supposed
Proof upon proof was needed now, now first,