IPPOLITO. 
                           Good-night.

Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.

IPPOLITO. 
Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence
Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine
Who has just left me!

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
              As we passed each other,
I saw that he was weeping.

IPPOLITO. 
                        Poor old man!

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Who is he?

IPPOLITO. 
       Jacopo Nardi.  A brave soul;
One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best
And noblest of them all; but he has made me
Sad with his sadness.  As I look on you
My heart grows lighter.  I behold a man
Who lives in an ideal world, apart
From all the rude collisions of our life,
In a calm atmosphere.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                      Your Eminence
Is surely jesting.  If you knew the life
Of artists as I know it, you might think
Far otherwise.

IPPOLITO. 
          But wherefore should I jest? 
The world of art is an ideal world,—­
The world I love, and that I fain would live in;
So speak to me of artists and of art,
Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians
That now illustrate Rome.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                     Of the musicians,
I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro
And chapel-master of his Holiness,
Who trains the Papal choir.

IPPOLITO. 
               In church this morning,
I listened to a mass of Goudimel,
Divinely chanted.  In the Incarnatus,
In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang
With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian,
A Neapolitan love-song.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                      You amaze me. 
Was it a wanton song?

IPPOLITO. 
                   Not a divine one. 
I am not over-scrupulous, as you know,
In word or deed, yet such a song as that. 
Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir,
And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;
There’s something wrong in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
             There’s something wrong
In everything.  We cannot make the world
Go right.  ’T is not my business to reform
The Papal choir.

IPPOLITO. 
               Nor mine, thank Heaven. 
Then tell me of the artists.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                            Naming one
I name them all; for there is only one. 
His name is Messer Michael Angelo. 
All art and artists of the present day
Centre in him.

IPPOLITO. 
         You count yourself as nothing!

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Or less than nothing, since I am at best
Only a portrait-painter; one who draws
With greater or less skill, as best he may,
The features of a face.

IPPOLITO. 
                      And you have had
The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying
Julia Gonzaga!  Do you count as nothing
A privilege like that?  See there the portrait
Rebuking you with its divine expression. 
Are you not penitent?  He whose skilful hand
Painted that lovely picture has not right
To vilipend the art of portrait-painting. 
But what of Michael Angelo?