Part Third: Monologue

Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAELANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.

Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi,And less than thou I will not! If the thoughtCould, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stonesAnd swing them to their places; if a breathCould blow this rounded dome into the air,As if it were a bubble, and these statuesSpring at a signal to their sacred stations,As sentinels mount guard upon a wall.Then were my task completed. Now, alas!Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holdingUpon his hand the model of a church,As German artists paint him; and what years,What weary years, must drag themselves along,Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrancesMust block the way; what idle interferencesOf Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's,Who nothing know of art beyond the colorOf cloaks and stockings, nor of any buildingSave that of their own fortunes! And what then?I must then the short-coming of my meansPiece out by stepping forward, as the SpartanWas told to add a step to his short sword.

And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that lightGone out, that sunshine darkened; all that musicAnd merriment, that used to make our livesLess melancholy, swallowed up in silenceLike madrigals sung in the street at nightBy passing revellers? It is strange indeedThat he should die before me. 'T is againstThe laws of nature that the young should die,And the old live; unless it be that someHave long been dead who think themselves alive,Because not buried. Well, what matters it,Since now that greater light, that was my sun,Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness!Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me,And, like a ruined wall, the world around meCrumbles away, and I am left alone.I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughtsAre now my sole companions,--thoughts of her,That like a benediction from the skiesCome to me in my solitude and soothe me.When men are old, the incessant thought of DeathFollows them like their shadow; sits with themAt every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep;And when they wake already is awake,And standing by their bedside. Then, what follyIt is in us to make an enemyOf this importunate follower, not a friend!To me a friend, and not an enemy,Has he become since all my friends are dead.