Let me still remain a sinner--it at least will not
lead me to murder the woman I love, and provide for her torment and
suffering, instead of the promised pleasure. Believe me, Corilla has
never yet cursed me, nor have her fine eyes ever shed a tear of sorrow
on my account. You have made your beloved an unwilling saint and
martyr--possibly that may have been very sublime, and the angels may
have wept or rejoiced over it. I have lavished upon my beloved ones
nothing but earthly happiness. I have not made them saints, but only
happy children of this world; and even when they have ceased to love me,
they have always continued to call me their friend, and blessed me for
making them rich and happy. You have set of crown of thorns upon the
head of your beloved, I would bind a laurel-crown upon the beautiful
brow of my Corilla, which will not wound her head, and will not cause
her to die of grief. You are not willing to aid me in this, my work?
You refuse me this laurel-wreath because you have only martyr-crowns to
dispose of? Very well, holy father of Christendom, I will nevertheless
compel you to comply with my wishes, and you shall have no peace in your
holy city from my mad tricks until you promise me to crown the great
improvisatrice in the capitol.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314