[Exit with the Papal Guard.
[Lord Cardinal Vera approaches Cesare’s couch, then shakes his head and joins the others.
VERA.
It is too sore! When he was but my scholar,
As if the son of a great potentate
He breathed to rule, his glance made heritage.
TORELLA.
This pestilential fever
Has worked down to the scath, the sunken rock,
His taint of blood: he is involved, uncertain;
The level brain has sprung at accident,
And scattered loose the logic of his dreams—
Broken and lost.
BONAFEDE.
Had he but drawn his army
Clear of this Rome and leapt on Pisa, had he
Refused to sell his votes he had been saved.
CESARE.
[Suddenly lifting his head.]
You were throwing dice.... Continue! Play the game.