We shall laugh At those who toil for fame, and make their lives A tedious martyrdom, that they may live A little longer in the mouths of men! And so, good-night.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Good-night, my Fra Bastiano.
[Returning to his work.
How will men speak of me when I am gone, When all this colorless, sad life is ended, And I am dust?
They will remember only The wrinkled forehead, the marred countenance, The rudeness of my speech, and my rough manners, And never dream that underneath them all There was a woman's heart of tenderness.
They will not know the secret of my life, Locked up in silence, or but vaguely hinted In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance survive Some little space in memories of men! Each one performs his life-work, and then leaves it; Those that come after him will estimate His influence on the age in which he lived.
V PALAZZO BELVEDERE TITIAN'S studio.

A painting of Danae with a curtain before it.
TITIAN, MICHAEL ANGELO, and GIORGIO VASARI.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
So you have left at last your still lagoons, Your City of Silence floating in the sea, And come to us in Rome.
TITIAN.
I come to learn, But I have come too late.

I should have seen Rome in my youth, when all my mind was open To new impressions.

Our Vasari here Leads me about, a blind man, groping darkly Among the marvels of the past.

I touch them, But do not see them.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
There are things in Rome That one might walk bare-footed here from Venice But to see once, and then to die content.
TITIAN.
I must confess that these majestic ruins Oppress me with their gloom.