Ottima. There's one thing must be done; you know what thing.
Come in and help to carry—We may sleep
Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night.

Sebald. What would come, think you, if we let him lie

Just as he is? Let him lie there until
The angels take him: he is turned by this
Off from his face, beside, as you will see.

Ottima. This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.
Three, four—four grey hairs! Is it so you said
A plait of hair should wave across my neck?

No—this way!

Sebald. Ottima, I would give your neck,
Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,
That this were undone! Killing?—Kill the world
So Luca lives again!—ay, lives to sputter

His fulsome dotage on you—yes, and feign
Surprise that I returned at eve to sup,
When all the morning I was loitering here—
Bid me dispatch my business and begone.
I would...

Ottima. See!

Sebald. No, I'll finish! Do you think
I fear to speak the bare truth once for all
All we have talked of is, at bottom, fine
To suffer—there's a recompense in guilt;
One must be venturous and fortunate:

What is one young for, else? In age we'll sigh
O'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown ever;
Still, we have lived! The vice was in its place—
But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn
His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse—