ASSERATO (interrupting him). Such a thing was never heard of since the sea washed the walls of Genoa.
ZENTURIONE (continues, with great heat). Doria drew a sword, which he had concealed under a scarlet cloak—stuck it through my vote—called to the assembly——
ZIBO. "Senators, 'tis good-for-nothing—'tis pierced through. Lomellino is procurator."
ZENTURIONE. "Lomellino is procurator." And threw his sword upon the table.
ASSERATO. And called out, "'Tis good-for-nothing!" and threw his sword upon the table.
FIESCO (after a pause). On what are you resolved?
ZENTURIONE. The republic is wounded to its very heart. On what are we resolved?
FIESCO. Zenturione, rushes may yield to a breath, but the oak requires a storm. I ask, on what are you resolved?
ZIBO. Methinks the question shall be, on what does Genoa resolve?
FIESCO. Genoa! Genoa! name it not. 'Tis rotten, and crumbles wherever you touch it. Do you reckon on the nobles? Perhaps because they put on grave faces, look mysterious when state affairs are mentioned—talk not of them! Their heroism is stifled among the bales of their Levantine merchandise. Their souls hover anxiously over their India fleet.