MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                       Speak not of it! 
How damp and cold it was!  How my bones ached
And my head reeled, when I was working there! 
I am too old.  I will stay here in Rome,
Where all is old and crumbling, like myself,
To hopeless ruin.  All roads lead to Rome.

BENVENUTO. 
And all lead out of it.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                    There is a charm,
A certain something in the atmosphere,
That all men feel, and no man can describe.

BENVENUTO. 
Malaria?

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
          Yes, malaria of the mind,
Out of this tomb of the majestic Past! 
The fever to accomplish some great work
That will not let us sleep.  I must go on
Until I die.

BENVENUTO. 
Do you ne’er think of Florence?

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                       Yes; whenever
I think of anything beside my work,
I think of Florence.  I remember, too,
The bitter days I passed among the quarries
Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta;
Road-building in the marshes; stupid people,
And cold and rain incessant, and mad gusts
Of mountain wind, like howling dervishes,
That spun and whirled the eddying snow about them
As if it were a garment; aye, vexations
And troubles of all kinds, that ended only
In loss of time and money.

BENVENUTO. 
                        True; Maestro,
But that was not in Florence.  You should leave
Such work to others.  Sweeter memories
Cluster about you, in the pleasant city
Upon the Arno.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
             In my waking dreams
I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi,
Ghiberti’s gates of bronze, and Giotto’s tower;
And Ghirlandajo’s lovely Benci glides
With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts,
A splendid vision!  Time rides with the old
At a great pace.  As travellers on swift steeds
See the near landscape fly and flow behind them,
While the remoter fields and dim horizons
Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them,
So in old age things near us slip away,
And distant things go with as.  Pleasantly
Come back to me the days when, as a youth,
I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens
Of Medici, and saw the antique statues,
The forms august of gods and godlike men,
And the great world of art revealed itself
To my young eyes.  Then all that man hath done
Seemed possible to me.  Alas! how little
Of all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!

BENVENUTO. 
Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo
And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence,
Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel,
And the Last Judgment answer.  Is it finished?