To the motive, the endeavor, the heart's self.
Your quick sense looks: you crown and call aright
The soul o' the purpose, ere 'tis shaped as act,
Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king.
But when the act comes, stands for what 'tis worth,
—Here's Puccio, the skilled soldier, he's my judge!
Was all well, Puccio?
Puc. All was ... must be well:
If we beat Lucca presently, as doubtless ...
—No, there's no doubt, we must—all was well done.