I will stay here And die in Rome.

The very weeds, that grow Among the broken fragments of her ruins, Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers Of other cities; and the desolate ring Of the Campagna round about her walls Fairer than all the villas that encircle The towns of Tuscany.
BENVENUTO.
But your old friends! MICHAEL ANGELO.
All dead by violence.

Baccio Valori Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned; Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison.
Is Florence then a place for honest men To flourish in?
What is there to prevent My sharing the same fate?
BENVENUTO.
Why this: if all Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Is Aretino dead?
BENVENUTO.
He lives in Venice, And not in Florence.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is the same to me This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers Call the Divine, as if to make the word Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me A letter written for the public eye, And with such subtle and infernal malice, I wonder at his wickedness.

'T is he Is the express great devil, and not you.
Some years ago he told me how to paint The scenes of the Last Judgment.
BENVENUTO.
I remember.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom With which I represent it.
BENVENUTO.
Hypocrite! MICHAEL ANGELO.
He says I show mankind that I am wanting In piety and religion, in proportion As I profess perfection in my art.
Profess perfection?
Why, 't is only men Like Bugiardini who are satisfied With what they do.

I never am content, But always see the labors of my hand Fall short of my conception.
BENVENUTO.
I perceive The malice of this creature.