Michael Angelo

Dedication

Nothing that is shall perish utterly, But perish only to revive again In other forms, as clouds restore in rain The exhalations of the land and sea. Men build their houses from the masonry Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain To throb in hearts that are, or are to be. So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones, I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust Their roots among the loose disjointed stones, Which to this end I fashion as I must. Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.

Prologue at Ischia

The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA, and JULIA GONZAGA.

VITTORIA. Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?

JULIA. To-morrow, dearest.

VITTORIA. Do not say to-morrow. A whole month of to-morrows were too soon. You must not go. You are a part of me.

JULIA. I must return to Fondi.

VITTORIA. The old castle Needs not your presence. No one waits for you. Stay one day longer with me. They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer. I was thinking But yesterday how like and how unlike Have been, and are, our destinies. Your husband, The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemed A father to you rather than a husband, Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flower And promise of his youth, was taken from me As by a rushing wind. The breath of battle Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more, Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our love Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them. Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears; But mine the grief of an impassioned woman, Who drank her life up in one draught of love.

JULIA. Behold this locket. This is the white hair Of my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love, This amaranth, and beneath it the device Non moritura. Thus my heart remains True to his memory; and the ancient castle, Where we have lived together, where he died, Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.

VITTORIA. I did not mean to chide you.

JULIA. Let your heart Find, if it can, some poor apology For one who is too young, and feels too keenly The joy of life, to give up all her days To sorrow for the dead. While I am true To the remembrance of the man I loved And mourn for still, I do not make a show Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded And, like Veronica da Gambara, Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth In coach of sable drawn by sable horses, As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays.

VITTORIA. Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?

JULIA. A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar. You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino; And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my portrait. That is not a sin.

VITTORIA. Only a vanity.

JULIA. He painted yours.

VITTORIA. Do not call up to me those days departed When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories, Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.

JULIA. Yet without illusions What would our lives become, what we ourselves? Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, They lift us from the commonplace of life To better things.

VITTORIA. Are there no brighter dreams, No higher aspirations, than the wish To please and to be pleased?

JULIA. For you there are; I am no saint; I feel the world we live in Comes before that which is to be here after, And must be dealt with first.

VITTORIA. But in what way?

JULIA. Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.

VITTORIA. And for whom is meant This portrait that you speak of?

JULIA. For my friend The Cardinal Ippolito.

VITTORIA. For him?

JULIA Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 'T is always flattering to a woman's pride To be admired by one whom all admire.

VITTORIA. Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard, He is a Cardinal; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.

JULIA. You forget The horror of that night, when Barbarossa, The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast To seize me for the Sultan Soliman; How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped, And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed, Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there Among the brigands. Then of all my friends The Cardinal Ippolito was first To come with his retainers to my rescue. Could I refuse the only boon he asked At such a time, my portrait?

VITTORIA. I have heard Strange stories of the splendors of his palace, And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince, He rides through Rome with a long retinue Of Ethiopians and Numidians And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses, Making a gallant show. Is this the way A Cardinal should live?

JULIA. He is so young; Hardly of age, or little more than that; Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters, A poet, a musician, and a scholar; Master of many languages, and a player On many instruments. In Rome, his palace Is the asylum of all men distinguished In art or science, and all Florentines Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin, Duke Alessandro.

VITTORIA. I have seen his portrait, Painted by Titian. You have painted it In brighter colors.

JULIA. And my Cardinal, At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace, Keeps a tame lion!

VITTORIA. And so counterfeits St. Mark, the Evangelist!

JULIA. Ah, your tame lion Is Michael Angelo.

VITTORIA. You speak a name That always thrills me with a noble sound, As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo! A lion all men fear and none can tame; A man that all men honor, and the model That all should follow; one who works and prays, For work is prayer, and consecrates his life To the sublime ideal of his art, Till art and life are one; a man who holds Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak Of great things done, or to be done, his name Is ever on their lips.

JULIA. You too can paint The portrait of your hero, and in colors Brighter than Titian's; I might warn you also Against the dangers that beset your path; But I forbear.

VITTORIA. If I were made of marble, Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo, He might admire me: being but flesh and blood, I am no more to him than other women; That is, am nothing.

JULIA. Does he ride through Rome Upon his little mule, as he was wont, With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan, As when I saw him last?

VITTORIA. Pray do not jest. I cannot couple with his noble name A trivial word! Look, how the setting sun Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, And changes Capri to a purple cloud! And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke, And the great city stretched upon the shore As in a dream!

JULIA. Parthenope the Siren!

VITTORIA. And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor! It is beautiful!

JULIA. I have no heart to feel the beauty of it! My feet are weary, pacing up and down These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past, It is too sad. I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.

VITTORIA. I will go with you; for I would not lose One hour of your dear presence. 'T is enough Only to be in the same room with you. I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak; If I but see you, I am satisfied. [They go in.

Monologue: The Last Judgment

MICHAEL ANGELO's Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me? Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not. The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound; They only heard the sound of their own voices.

Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me? Fra Bastian, my Era Bastian, might have done it; But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes, Press down his lids; and so the burden falls On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. That is the title they cajole me with, To make me do their work and leave my own; But having once begun, I turn not back. Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets To the four corners of the earth, and wake The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels, Open your books and read? Ye dead awake! Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death, As men who suddenly aroused from sleep Look round amazed, and know not where they are!

In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy To be uplifted on its wings, and listen To the prophetic voices in the air That call us onward. Then the work we do Is a delight, and the obedient hand Never grows weary. But how different is it En the disconsolate, discouraged hours, When all the wisdom of the world appears As trivial as the gossip of a nurse In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless,

What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, That I have drawn her face among the angels, Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams, That through the vacant chambers of my heart Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me? 'T is said that Emperors write their names in green When under age, but when of age in purple. So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all, Writes his in green at first, but afterwards In the imperial purple of our blood. First love or last love,--which of these two passions Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair, The star of morning or the evening star? The sunrise or the sunset of the heart? The hour when we look forth to the unknown, And the advancing day consumes the shadows, Or that when all the landscape of our lives Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories Rise like a tender haze, and magnify The objects we behold, that soon must vanish?

What matters it to me, whose countenance Is like the Laocoon's, full of pain; whose forehead Is a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score years Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish; To me, the artisan, to whom all women Have been as if they were not, or at most A sudden rush of pigeons in the air, A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence? I am too old for love; I am too old To flatter and delude myself with visions Of never-ending friendship with fair women, Imaginations, fantasies, illusions, In which the things that cannot be take shape, And seem to be, and for the moment are. [Convent bells ring.

Distant and near and low and loud the bells, Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves In their dim cloisters. The descending sun Seems to caress the city that he loves, And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. I will go forth and breathe the air a while.

San Silvestro

A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestra on Monte Cavallo.

VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others.

VITTORIA. Here let us rest a while, until the crowd Has left the church. I have already sent For Michael Angelo to join us here.

MESSER CLAUDIO. After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse On the Pauline Epistles, certainly Some words of Michael Angelo on Art Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.

MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; Diana or Madonna, which I know not! In attitude and aspect formed to be At once the artist's worship and despair!

VITTORIA. Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I met your messenger upon the way, And hastened hither.

VITTORIA. It is kind of you To come to us, who linger here like gossips Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered I saw but the Marchesa.

VITTORIA. Take this seat Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei, Who still maintains that our Italian tongue Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence We will not quarrel with him.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Eccellenza--

VITTORIA. Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.

MESSER CLAUDIO. 'T is the abuse of them and not the use I deprecate.

MICHAEL ANGELO. The use or the abuse It matters not. Let them all go together, As empty phrases and frivolities, And common as gold-lace upon the collar Of an obsequious lackey.

VITTORIA. That may be, But something of politeness would go with them; We should lose something of the stately manners Of the old school.

MESSER CLAUDIO. Undoubtedly.

VITTORlA. But that Is not what occupies my thoughts at present, Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele. It was to counsel me. His Holiness Has granted me permission, long desired, To build a convent in this neighborhood, Where the old tower is standing, from whose top Nero looked down upon the burning city.

MICHAEL ANGELO. It is an inspiration!

VITTORIA. I am doubtful How I shall build; how large to make the convent, And which way fronting.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow. Long, long years ago, Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, I saw the statue of Laocoon Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost Writhing in pain; and as it tore away The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard, Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins Of temples in the Forum here in Rome. If God should give me power in my old age To build for Him a temple half as grand As those were in their glory, I should count My age more excellent than youth itself, And all that I have hitherto accomplished As only vanity.

VITTORIA. I understand you. Art is the gift of God, and must be used Unto His glory. That in art is highest Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed The horses of Italicus, they won The race at Gaza, for his benediction O'erpowered all magic; and the people shouted That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art Which bears the consecration and the seal Of holiness upon it will prevail Over all others. Those few words of yours Inspire me with new confidence to build. What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps, Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.

MICHAEL ANGELO. If strong enough.

VITTORIA. If not, it can be strengthened.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I see no bar nor drawback to this building, And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, We may together view the site.

VITTORIA. I thank you. I did not venture to request so much.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria--

VITTORIA. What, again, Maestro?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech. I am too old to change.

Cardinal Ippolito

A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.

JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.

NARDI. I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. My heart begins to fail me. What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost; And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.

Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.

IPPOLITO. I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.

NARDI. I wait to see The Cardinal.

IPPOLITO. I am the Cardinal. And you?

NARDI. Jacopo Nardi.

IPPOLITO. You are welcome I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi Had told me of your coming.

NARDI. 'T was his son That brought me to your door.

IPPOLITO. Pray you, be seated. You seem astonished at the garb I wear, But at my time of life, and with my habits, The petticoats of a Cardinal would be-- Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed Like an old dowager. It were putting wine Young as the young Astyanax into goblets As old as Priam.

NARDI. Oh, your Eminence Knows best what you should wear.

IPPOLITO. Dear Messer Nardi, You are no stranger to me. I have read Your excellent translation of the books Of Titus Livius, the historian Of Rome, and model of all historians That shall come after him. It does you honor; But greater honor still the love you bear To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals I hope your hand will write, in happier days Than we now see.

NARDI. Your Eminence will pardon The lateness of the hour.

IPPOLITO. The hours I count not As a sun-dial; but am like a clock, That tells the time as well by night as day. So no excuse. I know what brings you here. You come to speak of Florence.

NARDI. And her woes.

IPPOLITO. The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.

NARDI. Alas, that such a scourge Should fall on such a city!

IPPOLITO. When he dies, The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, The beast obscene, should be the monument Of this bad man.

NARDI. He walks the streets at night With revellers, insulting honest men. No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor Of women and all ancient pious customs Are quite forgotten now. The offices Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri Have been abolished. All the magistrates Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. The very memory of all honest living Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.

IPPOLITO. And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,--our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,--lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.

NARDI. What a change Ten little years have made! We all remember Those better days, when Niccola Capponi, The Gonfaloniere, from the windows Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets, Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ Was chosen King of Florence; and already Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!

IPPOLITO. Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.

NARDI. Little hope Of help is there from him. He has betrothed His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke. What hope have we from such an Emperor?

IPPOLITO. Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, Or honest men the Duke.

NARDI. We have determined To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear More than I hope.

IPPOLITO. The Emperor is busy With this new war against the Algerines, And has no time to listen to complaints From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them, But go myself. All is in readiness For my departure, and to-morrow morning I shall go down to Itri, where I meet Dante da Castiglione and some others, Republicans and fugitives from Florence, And then take ship at Gaeta, and go To join the Emperor in his new crusade Against the Turk. I shall have time enough And opportunity to plead our cause.

NARDI, rising. It is an inspiration, and I hail it As of good omen. May the power that sends it Bless our beloved country, and restore Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence Is now outside its gates. What lies within Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, For you have need of rest. Good-night.

IPPOLITO. Good-night.

Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.

IPPOLITO. Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me!

FRA SEBASTIANO. As we passed each other, I saw that he was weeping.

IPPOLITO. Poor old man!

FRA SEBASTIANO. Who is he?

IPPOLITO. Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul; One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best And noblest of them all; but he has made me Sad with his sadness. As I look on you My heart grows lighter. I behold a man Who lives in an ideal world, apart From all the rude collisions of our life, In a calm atmosphere.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Your Eminence Is surely jesting. If you knew the life Of artists as I know it, you might think Far otherwise.

IPPOLITO. But wherefore should I jest? The world of art is an ideal world,-- The world I love, and that I fain would live in; So speak to me of artists and of art, Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians That now illustrate Rome.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Of the musicians, I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro And chapel-master of his Holiness, Who trains the Papal choir.

IPPOLITO. In church this morning, I listened to a mass of Goudimel, Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus, In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, A Neapolitan love-song.

FRA SEBASTIANO. You amaze me. Was it a wanton song?

IPPOLITO. Not a divine one. I am not over-scrupulous, as you know, In word or deed, yet such a song as that. Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place; There's something wrong in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. There's something wrong In everything. We cannot make the world Go right. 'T is not my business to reform The Papal choir.

IPPOLITO. Nor mine, thank Heaven. Then tell me of the artists.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Naming one I name them all; for there is only one. His name is Messer Michael Angelo. All art and artists of the present day Centre in him.

IPPOLITO. You count yourself as nothing!

FRA SEBASTIANO. Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait-painter; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.

IPPOLITO. And you have had The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothing A privilege like that? See there the portrait Rebuking you with its divine expression. Are you not penitent? He whose skilful hand Painted that lovely picture has not right To vilipend the art of portrait-painting. But what of Michael Angelo?

FRA SEBASTIANO. But lately Strolling together down the crowded Corso, We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature, Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover Of all things beautiful, especially When they are Arab horses, much admired, And could not praise enough.

IPPOLITO, to an attendant. Hassan, to-morrow, When I am gone, but not till I am gone,-- Be careful about that,--take Barbarossa To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor, Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, Near to the Capitol; and take besides Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say Your master sends them to him as a present.

FRA SEBASTIANO. A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.

IPPOLITO. You think him like Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil Have I translated in Italian verse, And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it, Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy I am reminded of another town And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely, The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa, And all that followed?

FRA SEBASTIANO. A most strange adventure; A tale as marvellous and full of wonder As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti; Almost incredible!

IPPOLITO. Were I a painter I should not want a better theme than that: The lovely lady fleeing through the night In wild disorder; and the brigands' camp With the red fire-light on their swarthy faces. Could you not paint it for me?

FRA SEBASTIANO. No, not I. It is not in my line.

IPPOLITO. Then you shall paint The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel Something like admiration for a man Who dared this strange adventure.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I will do it. But catch the corsair first.

IPPOLITO. You may begin To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither; Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs Beneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it. 'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscription In Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,-- There is no God but God.

FRA SEBASTIANO. How beautiful In fashion and in finish! It is perfect. The Arsenal of Venice can not boast A finer sword.

IPPOLITO. You like it? It is yours.

FRA SEBASTIANO. You do not mean it.

IPPOLITO. I am not a Spaniard, To say that it is yours and not to mean it. I have at Itri a whole armory Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. You have not been rewarded as you should be For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble Into the scale, and make the balance equal. Till then suspend it in your studio; You artists like such trifles.

FRA SEBASTIANO. I will keep it In memory of the donor. Many thanks.

IPPOLITO. Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, The old dead city, with the old dead people; Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning I start for Itri, and go thence by sea To join the Emperor, who is making war Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge The beautiful Gonzaga.

FRA SEBASTIANO. An achievement Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. Berni and Ariosto both shall add A canto to their poems, and describe you As Furioso and Innamorato. Now I must say good-night.

IPPOLITO. You must not go; First you shall sup with me. My seneschal Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,-- I like to give the whole sonorous name, It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,-- Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi, And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells: These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even; So we will go to supper, and be merry.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!