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Cowl'd is he, but I saw his great eyes glare From their deep sockets in such wise as leopards Glare from their caverns, crouching ere they spring On their reluctant prey.
LUC.
And what name gave he?
PORTER [After a pause.]
Something-arola.
LUC.
Savon-? [PORTER nods.] Show him up. [Exit PORTER.]
FOOL If he be right astronomically, Mistress, then is he the greater dunce in respect of true learning, the which goes by the globe. Argal, 'twere better he widened his wind-pipe.
[Sings.]
Fly home, sweet self, Nothing's for weeping, Hemp was not made For lovers' keeping, Lovers' keeping, Cheerly, cheerly, fly away.
Hew no more wood While ash is glowing, The longest gra.s.s Is lovers' mowing, Lovers' mowing, Cheerly, [etc.]
[Re-enter PORTER, followed by SAV. Exeunt PORTER, FOOL, and FIRST and SECOND APPS.]
SAV.
I am no more a monk, I am a man O' the world.
[Throws off cowl and frock, and stands forth in the costume of a Renaissance n.o.bleman. LUCREZIA looks him up and down.]
LUC.
Thou cutst a sorry figure.
SAV.
That Is neither here nor there. I love you, Madam.
LUC.
And this, methinks, is neither there nor here, For that my love of thee hath vanished, Seeing thee thus beprankt. Go pad thy calves!
Thus mightst thou, just conceivably, with luck, Capture the fancy of some serving-wench.
SAV.
And this is all thou hast to say to me?
LUC.
It is.
SAV.
I am dismiss'd?
LUC.
Thou art.
SAV.
'Tis well.
[Resumes frock and cowl.]
Savonarola is himself once more.
LUC.
And all my love for him returns to me A thousandfold!
SAV.
Too late! My pride of manhood Is wounded irremediably. I'll To the Piazza, where my flock awaits me.
Thus do we see that men make great mistakes But may amend them when the conscience wakes.
[Exit.]
LUC.
I'm half avenged now, but only half: 'Tis with the ring I'll have the final laugh!
Tho' love be sweet, revenge is sweeter far.
To the Piazza! Ha, ha, ha, ha, har!
[Seizes ring, and exit. Through open door are heard, as the Curtain falls, sounds of a terrific hubbub in the Piazza.]
ACT III
SCENE: The Piazza.
TIME: A few minutes anterior to close of preceding Act.
The Piazza is filled from end to end with a vast seething crowd that is drawn entirely from the lower orders. There is a sprinkling of wild-eyed and dishevelled women in it. The men are lantern-jawed, with several days' growth of beard. Most of them carry rude weapons-- staves, bill-hooks, crow-bars, and the like--and are in as excited a condition as the women. Some of them are bare-headed, others affect a kind of Phrygian cap. Cobblers predominate.
Enter LORENZO DE MEDICI and COSIMO DE MEDICI. They wear cloaks of scarlet brocade, and, to avoid notice, hold masks to their faces.
COS.
What purpose doth the foul and greasy plebs Ensue to-day here?
LOR.
I nor know nor care.
COS.
How thrall'd thou art to the philosophy Of Epicurus! Naught that's human I Deem alien from myself. [To a COBBLER.] Make answer, fellow!
What empty hope hath drawn thee by a thread Forth from the OBscene hovel where thou starvest?
COB.
No empty hope, your Honour, but the full a.s.surance that to-day, as yesterday, Savonarola will let loose his thunder Against the vices of the idle rich And from the br.i.m.m.i.n.g cornucopia Of his immense vocabulary pour Scorn on the lamentable heresies Of the New Learning and on all the art Later than Giotto.
COS.
Mark how absolute The knave is!
LOR.
Then are parrots rational When they regurgitate the thing they hear!
This fool is but an unit of the crowd, And crowds are senseless as the vasty deep That sinks or surges as the moon dictates.
I know these crowds, and know that any man That hath a glib tongue and a rolling eye Can as he willeth with them.
[Removes his mask and mounts steps of Loggia.]
Citizens!
[Prolonged yells and groans from the crowd.]
Yes, I am he, I am that same Lorenzo Whom you have nicknamed the Magnificent.
[Further terrific yells, shakings of fists, brandis.h.i.+ngs of bill- hooks, insistent cries of 'Death to Lorenzo!' 'Down with the Magnificent!' Cobblers on fringe of crowd, down c., exhibit especially all the symptoms of epilepsy, whooping-cough, and other ailments.]
You love not me.
