Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities,

The fallen fortunes, and the desolation

Of Florence are to me a tragedy

Deeper than words, and darker than despair. I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle,

Have loved her with the passion of a lover, And clothed her with all lovely attributes That the imagination can conceive,

Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, And trodden in the dust beneath the feet Of an adventurer! It is a grief

Too great for me to bear in my old age.

BINDO.

I say no news from Florence: I am wrong,
For Benvenuto writes that he is coming
To be my guest in Rome.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

I have not time to stay,

And yet I will. I see from here your house Is filled with works of art. That bust in

Because I marvel at the architects Who built these walls, and curved these noble arches?

Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider How mean our work is, when compared with theirs!

Look at these walls about us and above us! They have been shaken by earthquakes, have been made.

A fortress, and been battered by long sieges; The iron clamps, that held the stones together,

Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect

And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed

Out of the solid rock, and were a part
Of the foundations of the world itself.

CAVALIERI.

Your work, I say again, is nobler work, In so far as its end and aim are nobler; And this is but a ruin, like the rest.

Its vaulted passages are made the caverns
Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts
Of murdered men.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

A thousand wild flowers bloom From every chink, and the birds build their

nests

Among the ruined arches, and suggest
New thoughts of beauty to the architect.
Now let us climb the broken stairs that lead
Into the corridors above, and study
The marvel and the mystery of that art
In which I am a pupil, not a master.
All things must have an end; the world it-
self

Must have an end, as in a dream I saw it.
There came a great hand out of heaven, and

touched

The earth, and stopped it in its course. The

seas

Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss;
The forests and the fields slid off, and floated

I have turned them all To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature, That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me

Where meekness could not, and where patience could not,

As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft In his left hand the head of the Medusa, And in his right the sword that severed it; His right foot planted on the lifeless corse; His face superb and pitiful, with eyes Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance.

The nimble lie

Is like the second-hand upon a clock;
We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth
Seems to stand still, and yet it moves un-

seen,

And wins at last, for the clock will not strike

Till it has reached the goal.

BENVENUTO.

My obstinacy Stood me in stead, and helped me to o'er

come

The hindrances that envy and ill-will Put in my way.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

When anything is done People see not the patient doing of it,