MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                      None but one,—­
None but yourself, who are your greatest foe. 
He that respects himself is safe from others;
He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

BENVENUTO. 
I always wear one.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                    O incorrigible! 
At least, forget not the celestial vision. 
Man must have something higher than himself
To think of.

BENVENUTO. 
   That I know full well.  Now listen. 
I have been sent for into France, where grow
The Lilies that illumine heaven and earth,
And carry in mine equipage the model
Of a most marvellous golden salt-cellar
For the king’s table; and here in my brain
A statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountain
Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful. 
I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor. 
And so farewell, great Master.  Think of me
As one who, in the midst of all his follies,
Had also his ambition, and aspired
To better things.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
               Do not forget the vision.

[Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia.

Now in what circle of his poem sacred
Would the great Florentine have placed this man? 
Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood,
Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory,
I know not, but most surely not with those
Who walk in leaden cloaks.  Though he is one
Whose passions, like a potent alkahest,
Dissolve his better nature, he is not
That despicable thing, a hypocrite;
He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them. 
Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise.

IV.

FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO

MICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.

MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. 
Who is it?

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
          Wait, for I am out of breath
In climbing your steep stairs.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                     Ah, my Bastiano,
If you went up and down as many stairs
As I do still, and climbed as many ladders,
It would be better for you.  Pray sit down. 
Your idle and luxurious way of living
Will one day take your breath away entirely. 
And you will never find it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                       Well, what then? 
That would be better, in my apprehension,
Than falling from a scaffold.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                      That was nothing
It did not kill me; only lamed me slightly;
I am quite well again.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                 But why, dear Master,
Why do you live so high up in your house,
When you could live below and have a garden,
As I do?

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
         From this window I can look
On many gardens; o’er the city roofs
See the Campagna and the Alban hills;
And all are mine.