ZENTURIONE. Learn to esteem our nobles more justly. Scarcely was Doria's haughty action done when hundreds of them rushed into the street tearing their garments. The senate was dispersed——
FIESCO (sarcastically). Like frighted pigeons when the vulture darts upon the dovecot.
ZENTURIONE. No! (fiercely)—like powder-barrels when a match falls on them.
ZIBO. The people are enraged. What may we not expect from the fury of the wounded boar!
FIESCO (laughing). The blind, unwieldy monster, which at first rattles its heavy bones, threatening, with gaping jaws, to devour the high and low, the near and distant, at last stumbles at a thread—Genoese, 'tis in vain! The epoch of the masters of the sea is past—Genoa is sunk beneath the splendor of its name. Its state is such as once was Rome's, when, like a tennis-ball, she leaped into the racket of young Octavius. Genoa can be free no longer; Genoa must be fostered by a monarch; therefore do homage to the mad-brained Gianettino.
ZENTURIONE (vehemently). Yes, when the contending elements are reconciled, and when the north pole meets the south. Come, friends.
FIESCO. Stay! stay! Upon what project are you brooding, Zibo?
ZIBO. On nothing.
FIESCO (leading them to a statue). Look at this figure.
ZENTURIONE. It is the Florentine Venus. Why point to her?