IPPOLITO. 
                  I am not a Spaniard,
To say that it is yours and not to mean it. 
I have at Itri a whole armory
Full of such weapons.  When you paint the portrait
Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. 
You have not been rewarded as you should be
For painting the Gonzaga.  Throw this bauble
Into the scale, and make the balance equal. 
Till then suspend it in your studio;
You artists like such trifles.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                        I will keep it
In memory of the donor.  Many thanks.

IPPOLITO. 
Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome,
The old dead city, with the old dead people;
Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall,
And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound
Of convent bells.  I must be gone from here;
Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy
To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods,
I must be gone from here.  To-morrow morning
I start for Itri, and go thence by sea
To join the Emperor, who is making war
Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink
Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains
The famous corsair.  Thus would I avenge
The beautiful Gonzaga.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                     An achievement
Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. 
Berni and Ariosto both shall add
A canto to their poems, and describe you
As Furioso and Innamorato. 
Now I must say good-night.

IPPOLITO. 
                      You must not go;
First you shall sup with me.  My seneschal
Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,—­
I like to give the whole sonorous name,
It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,—­
Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,
And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells: 
These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban
That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys
Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus
Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast
Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even;
So we will go to supper, and be merry.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Beware!  I Remember that Bolsena’s eels
And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!

IPPOLITO. 
’T was a French Pope; and then so long ago;
Who knows?—­perhaps the story is not true.

IV.

BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLES

Room in the Palace of JULIA GONZAGA.  Night.

JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO.

JULIA. 
Do not go yet.

VALDESSO. 
            The night is far advanced;
I fear to stay too late, and weary you
With these discussions.

JULIA. 
                     I have much to say. 
I speak to you, Valdesso, with that frankness
Which is the greatest privilege of friendship.—­
Speak as I hardly would to my confessor,
Such is my confidence in you.