Michael Angelo. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      Cardinal Ippolito

       Table of Contents

      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.