He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, leaving the Senate engaged in deliberation. War is resolved upon, and he is elected commander. The fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more that of English than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of Hamlet. A leader--or a fugitive? To drag Slow years along in idle vacancy, As a worn veteran living on the fame Of former deeds--to offer humble prayers And blessings for protection--owing all Yet left me of existence to the might Of other swords, dependent on some arm Which soon may cast me off; or on the field To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life Rush proudly through my veins--to hail again My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice To wake! to rule! to conquer!--Which must be My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling Still poorly to ignoble safety here, Secluded as a homicide, who cowers Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own! Is there not one among the many lords Of this divided Italy--not one With soul enough to envy that bright crown Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not ’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp, Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize On him who best shall call the prowess forth Which slumbers in my arm? Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the command of the armies, at the same time advising him to act with caution towards his enemies in the Republic. _Car._ Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes? Ay, I could number all. _Mar._ And know’st thou, too, What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved, Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts, Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs; But they remember _thee_. The high in soul Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not; Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul Revolts indignantly--thou know’st it well: But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet For the most lofty nature,--there is power Of winning meaner minds, without descent From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,-- And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine.