What strands of amber! O magnificence!
My blond is grey-ashamed to touch such yellow
Of crocus triumph. So it seems my sister
Will be a sovereign Duchess.
LUCREZIA.
Cesare,
This Este marriage—you would prosper it?
CESARE.
My fortress!
Behind your towers Venice can rage and curse....
But there is joy beyond—we shall be neighbour-princes,
Romagna in your sight as you look out,
And you in reach if I should mount a horse.
Rome will be left, but not the Duke, your brother,
We cannot be divided.... Holiness!
LUCREZIA.
You must not, Cesare.... Had you been home
The Holy Father had not set me up....
It burns me! [She lifts her hands to her face.
CESARE.
Curse the folly!
To make a jest of you—our secret! You
To be a Pope, a Governor—my secret
Of the veiled hours, of the sealed lips!
Our father can be garrulous in action
As well as tongue. Forget, forget, love-goddess,
All but the whelming sea-deep and your pearls!