ALEXANDER.
The voice so slack, my heart,
Its cordiality unbraced! Nay, nay,
You are over-wearied. Come into your Stanze.
At your bedside, when you are laid to rest,
And have drunk wine and eaten, I will ponder
Our state-craft, and receive from you the story
Of Sinigaglia.
CESARE.
That is past.
Our talk must all lie onward.... Whew, the pain
Of riding rough for hours!
ALEXANDER.
I hate you black like this—night on your face.
CESARE.
I am marred.