MICHELOTTO.
And shall, if you will trust me with your hopes.
CESARE.
Uncertain! [They are silent.
Hopes—a hollow!
Slaughter the flocks of Ajax!
MICHELOTTO.
Stay!
God’s health, you have your plans, or I am palsied!
CESARE.
[Pulling Michelotto’s ear-ring.
Fondling, I have my plans: but not as God
Hovers His hand among the elements
To pick His missile; rather as Olympus,
Blustering and fickle, backs the game at Troy.
[After a pause.] I am tense and weary;
I dream too much—the fever of my dreaming
Strikes me at head of hosts,
And some in Spanish armour, some in French,
Innumerable hosts....
[Michelotto scans him anxiously; then rises, shaking himself.