MACCHIAVELLI.
[With vibrating voice.] No, but a Prince
Unequalled.
CESARE.
[Springing up.] You behold? Have you the eyes—
Keen, cutting crystals that have shot out joy
To see me totter?
Messer Niccolo,
If we are comprehended, we are greater
Than Fate or any chance. I am a prince.
Set down my kingdom that shall ever be
While dreams are portents. Oh, set down
The perfect scheming of the miracle!
Each part of action in my brain was solved,
And flowed on to its end. You recognised,
When, in the greatness of effective truth,
Last year I awed Romagna, and exacted
Sharp vengeance on my injurers, my kingdom
Was as the genesis of stars? With fire
Of primal force I founded it, secure
Against all future shocks, save this assault
Of sickness unto death at the steep moment
When death struck down my father.
... Yet it crumbles
It grows a shadow round me. Macchiavelli,
Restore it, by the word embody it;
Let it not perish! I shall ever wonder
That such perfection fell to nothingness
In its astute, swift likelihood. O Fortune!
The gulf.... [Breaking off with a gesture of menace.
You start for Florence?
MACCHIAVELLI.
Ay, for Florence,
To-morrow morning, close upon the dawn.
CESARE.
Take back to Florence this: if I but capture
Occasion once again, I sign a treaty,
Even if I needs must sign it with the Devil,
Gather my treasure, play my last resources,
Assemble all my friends, and, once at Pisa,
Use every power of my extremity
To render Florence evil, hour for hour
Of her despite....
[With a low laugh.] You think me slipping down
Into my tomb.... Ah, Messer Niccolo,
If I were you, this Cesar who is nothing
Would be contemptible. You ought to crush me,
You ought to make your mirth that I am flat:
It is my law that you fulfil; and justice
Is linked so with my judgment, even my passion
Conceives cold rage alone, or utter scorn
Of those who cannot end me. I look often
With still eyes on my end.
Farewell, farewell! You listen,
And all your face is speaking to my words.
We love each other, my best enemy.
Farewell.
All I have been is with you. Fortune
Out of her giddy air will arbitrate
Between my past and future.
[He gives his hand again. Macchiavelli quickly stoops and kisses it.