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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 f