Brain and hand alike Are dull and torpid.

To die young is best, And not to be remembered as old men Tottering about in their decrepitude.
VITTORIA.
My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten The story of Sophocles in his old age?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What story is it?
VITTORIA.
When his sons accused him, Before the Areopagus, of dotage, For all defence, he read there to his Judges The Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,-- The work of his old age.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is an illusion A fabulous story, that will lead old men Into a thousand follies and conceits.
VITTORIA.
So you may show to cavilers your painting Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Now you and Lady Julia shall resume The conversation that I interrupted.
VITTORIA.
It was of no great import; nothing more Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, And what I saw there in the ducal palace.
Will it not interrupt you?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not the least.
VITTORIA.
Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, And yet magnificent in all his ways; Not hospitable unto new ideas, But from state policy, and certain reasons Concerning the investiture of the duchy, A partisan of Rome, and consequently Intolerant of all the new opinions.
JULIA.
I should not like the Duke.

These silent men, Who only look and listen, are like wells That have no water in them, deep and empty.
How could the daughter of a king of France Wed such a duke?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The men that women marry And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.
VITTORIA.
And then the Duchess,--how shall I describe her, Or tell the merits of that happy nature, Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing?
Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature, Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through Each look and attitude and word and gesture; A kindly grace of manner and behavior, A something in her presence and her ways That makes her beautiful beyond the reach Of mere external beauty; and in heart So noble and devoted to the truth, And so in sympathy with all who strive After the higher life.
JULIA.
She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.
VITTORIA.
Then the devout and honorable women That grace her court, and make it good to be there; Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, The Magdalena and the Cherubina, And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; All lovely women, full of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.
JULIA.
Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.
VITTORIA.
No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; I fear he hardly would have comprehended The women that I speak of.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yet he wrote The story of Griselda.

That is something To set down in his favor.
VITTORIA.
With these ladies Was a young girl, Olympia Morate, Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar, Famous in all the universities.
A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel, And in the daily round of household cares, Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is now A favorite of the Duchess and companion Of Princess Anne.

This beautiful young Sappho Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes That she had written, with a voice whose sadness Thrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me look Into the future time, and ask myself What destiny will be hers.
JULIA.
A sad one, surely.
Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season; And these precocious intellects portend A life of sorrow or an early death.
VITTORIA.
About the court were many learned men; Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, The Duke's physician; and a pale young man, Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess Doth much delight to talk with and to read, For he hath written a book of Institutes The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it The Koran of the heretics.
JULIA.
And what poets Were there to sing you madrigals, and praise Olympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses?
VITTORIA.
No; for great Ariosto is no more.
The voice that filled those halls with melody Has long been hushed in death.
JULIA.
You should have made A pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb, And laid a wreath upon it, for the words He spake of you.
VITTORIA.
And of yourself no less, And of our master, Michael Angelo.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Of me?
VITTORIA.
Have you forgotten that he calls you Michael, less man than angel, and divine?
You are ungrateful.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A mere play on words.
That adjective he wanted for a rhyme, To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.
VITTORIA.
Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, Who, being looked upon with much disfavor By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
There let him stay with Pietro Aretino, The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine.
The title is so common in our mouths, That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, And will deserve it better than some poets.
VITTORIA.
What bee hath stung you?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
One that makes no honey; One that comes buzzing in through every window, And stabs men with his sting.