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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.

      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;