While Menelaus piled up the church at port He kept Tyndarida. Dauphin stood with de Maensac. John Borgia is bathed at last. (Clock-tick pierces the vision) Tiber, dark with the cloak, wet cat, gleaming in patches. Click of the hooves, through garbage, Clutching the greasy stone. “And the cloak floated” Slander is up betimes. But Varchi of Florence, Steeped in a different year, and pondering Brutus, Then SIGA MAL AUTHIS DEUTERON! “Dog-eye!!” (to Alessandro) “Whether for Love of Florence,” Varchi leaves it, Saying, “I saw the man, came up with him at Venice, “I, one wanting the facts, “And no mean labour. Or for a privy spite?” Good Varchi leaves it, But: “I saw the man. _Se pia?_ “_O empia?_ For Lorenzaccio had thought of stroke in the open “But uncertain (for the Duke went never unguarded) ... “And would have thrown him from wall “Yet feared this might not end him, or lest Alessandro “Know not by whom death came, O si credesse “If when the foot slipped, when death came upon him, “Lest cousin Duke Alessandro think he had fallen alone “No friend to aid him in falling.” _Caina attende._ As beneath my feet a lake, was ice in seeming. And all of this, runs Varchi, dreamed out before hand In Perugia, caught in the star-maze by Del Carmine, Cast on a natal paper, set with an exegesis, told, All told to Alessandro, told thrice over, Who held his death for a doom. In abuleia. But Don Lorenzino “Whether for love of Florence ... but: “O si morisse, credesse caduto da se.” SIGA, SIGA! The wet cloak floats on the surface, Schiavoni, caught on the wood-barge, Gives out the afterbirth, Giovanni Borgia Trails out no more at night, where Barabello Prods the Pope’s elephant, and gets no crown, where Mozarello Takes the Calabrian roadway, and for ending Is smothered beneath a mule, a poet’s ending, Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet’s ending. “Sanazarro “Alone out of all the court was faithful to him” For the gossip of Naples’ trouble drifts to North, Fracastor (lightning was midwife) Cotta, and Ser D’Alviano, Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d’ombra, Talk the talks out with Navighero, Burner of yearly Martials, (The slavelet is mourned in vain) And the next comer says “were nine wounds, “Four men, white horse with a double rider,” The hooves clink and slick on the cobbles ... Schiavoni ... the cloak floats on the water, “Sink the thing,” splash wakes Schiavoni; Tiber catching the nap, the moonlit velvet, Wet cat, gleaming in patches. “Se pia,” Varchi, “O empia, ma risoluto “E terribile deliberazione”