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These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear
That, when we die, with us all art will die.
*T is but a fancy. Nature will provide
Others to take our places. I rejoice
To see the young spring forward in the race,
Eager as we were, and as full of hope
And the sublime audacity of youth.

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Or from sunshine through a shower On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. Nature reveals herself in all our arts. The pavements and the palaces of cities Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills. Red lavas from the Euganean quarries Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam Reflected in your waters and your pictures. And thus the works of every artist show Something of his surroundings and his hab

its. The uttermost that can be reached by color Is here accomplished. Warmth and light

and softness
Mingle together. Never yet was flesh
Painted by hand of artist, dead or living,
With such divine perfection.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danaë, of which I hear such praise.

TITIAN, drawing back the curtain. What think you?

MICHAEL ANGELO.

TITIAN.

I am grateful For so much praise from you, who are a

master; While mostly those who praise and those who

blame Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly Their censure sounds like praise, their praise

like censure.

That Acrisius did well To lock such beauty in a brazen tower, And hide it from all eyes.

TITIAN.

The model truly

MICHAEL ANGELO.

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Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud

of Because he thought them so, are faded quite, – All beauty gone from them.

Serves me toc often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.

VITTORIA.

JULIA.

Ah, no, not that. Paler you are, but not less beautiful.

VITTORIA.

Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o'er our features when

we die. Thank you. And now

sit down beside me here. How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour When most I need you

Forgive me; I will speak of him no more,
The good Fra Bernardino has departed,
Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps,
Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught
That He who made us all without our help
Could also save us without aid of ours.
Renée of France, the Duchess of Ferrara,
That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds
That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata
Banished from court because of this new

doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret

thought Locked in your breast.

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I.

MONOLOGUE.

Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO's house.

MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous

stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall, Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding

Upon his hand the model of a church,
As German artists paint him ; and what

years, What weary years, must drag themselves

along, Ere this be turned to stone ! What hin

drances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes ! And what

then ? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spar

tan Was told to add a step to his short sword.

[A pause.

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