Let them all go together, As empty phrases and frivolities, And common as gold-lace upon the collar Of an obsequious lackey.
VITTORIA.
That may be, But something of politeness would go with them; We should lose something of the stately manners Of the old school.
MESSER CLAUDIO.
Undoubtedly.
VITTORlA.
But that Is not what occupies my thoughts at present, Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.
It was to counsel me.

His Holiness Has granted me permission, long desired, To build a convent in this neighborhood, Where the old tower is standing, from whose top Nero looked down upon the burning city.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
It is an inspiration! VITTORIA.
I am doubtful How I shall build; how large to make the convent, And which way fronting.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts.
Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence.

Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

Long, long years ago, Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, I saw the statue of Laocoon Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost Writhing in pain; and as it tore away The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard, Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony From its white, parted lips.

And still I marvel At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands This miracle was wrought.