[Burchard, scandalised, seeks a crucifix.
Good Master
Of the Ceremonies, did you take account
Of my beauty when you chronicled my dress?
I have been very handsome ...
He is gone,
Stolen off in horror at my vanity.
And yet this beauty is not vanity;
The vanity is when it falls away,
And crumbles into nothingness.
Even our Lady
Keeps power of intercession for us all
By loveliness that in simplicity
Draws God to will its pleasure as His will
And perfect pleasure. [Folding his hands.
Rosa Mystica,
O Flower of God, O Rose, O Spotless one,
Thou dost unfold to us thy sweet—in showers
Thy fragrancy, thy dews are shed on me;
Thou droppest on my darkness as soft leaves.
[He lies back, his eyelids softly stirring.
And there are scents—delicious—violets
And roses—unexpected—dropping down,
And running through the air. So unexpected,
So secret to me ... Violets, a gift,
As women give fresh from the hand ...
The flowers!
[He lifts himself, rounding his arms to garner the vision.
[Burchard advances with Lord Bonafede and several Cardinals.
BURCHARD.
The Lord Duke is revived.
ALEXANDER.
No matter now;
I am dying, I am safe. [Rolling on his side away from them.
There, do not crowd me—
My heart is offered. Ite, missa est.