LUCREZIA.
[Looking after him wistfully and addressing Calmeta.
Your lord may be a king—I have dreamed it thus—
I would your lord should be a king....
Dear captains,
And soldiers, and the poet ... give him glory.
CALMETA.
But we would fight for you.
LUCREZIA.
Then give him glory.
CESARE.
[Half turning.] I am ashamed a poet should behold you!
Cavaliere, she was in our thoughts
A statue of fair Victory, a winged
And silent creature that creates the air
She flees along....
Turn from her, she will damp
The stoutest hearts—a weather to discourage
An army from the field!
[Taking up a fold of Lucrezia’s veil.] In widow’s weeds—
For my assassin! These are widow’s weeds,
Are they not? They displease me; they deform.