CHARLES: Thrice have I said it!
FULVIA: Yet must I not until your will is wasted.
CHARLES (_angrily_): Ah!
(_FULVIA sighs then goes slowly._)
CHARLES: Cecco!
CECCO: My lord?
CHARLES: The hour?
CECCO (_going to window_): It leans to sunset.
CHARLES: The sky--the sky?
CECCO: A murk moves slowly up.
CHARLES (_wearily_): There should be storm--gloating of wind and
grind
Of hopeless thunders. Lightnings should laugh out
As tongues of fiends. There should be storm.
(_His head sinks on his breast._)
(_Suddenly._) Yet!--yet!----
CECCO: My lord?
CHARLES: The glow and glory of her seem
Dead in me!
CECCO: Of--the Greek?
CHARLES: And yearning has
Grown impotent--as 'twere a moment's folly,
A left and quickly quenched desire of youth
Kindled in me!--To youth alone love's sudden.
CECCO: Sir, dare I speak?
CHARLES: Speak.