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. A bitter thought
Passed through my mind, but it is gone again;
I spake too hastily.
JULIA.
I pray you, show me
What you have done.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not yet; it is not finished.