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.