Michael Angelo. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      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.

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