See! I have told the purpose of my life;
'T is gained: you are decided, well or ill—
You march on Florence, or submit to her—
My work is done with you, your brow declares.
But—leave you?—More of you seems yet to reach:
I stay for what I just begin to see.
Lur. So that you turn not to the past!
Dom. You trace
Nothing but ill in it—my selfish impulse,
Which sought its end and disregarded yours?