I start for Florence As fast as horse can carry me.

I long To set once more upon its level flags These feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements.
Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence.
The Sacristy is not finished.
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.