Lucretia Borgia, “the glory of her race,” and, in close attendance, Ercole Strozzi, just writing for her his great poem called _The Chase_, a medley of venery and politics. Who next? Here is the omnipotent Ascanio Sforza, vice-chancellor of the Roman church, all impetuosity, full of the boyish animation which he will retain through the most cruel trials till that day when he goes to his long rest in the church of Santa Maria del Popolo. Behind him comes cardinal Adriano Castelli, the witty diplomatist who wins all hearts, the admirable humanist who is going to celebrate this chase. These ladies and prelates sing the praises of Diana; it seems to them that the noble goddess in person is guiding their long cavalcade among the tombs, in the impressive silence of this great Roman desert where long aqueducts (odd vegetation!) lend sombre decoration to the landscape. Her broidered chlamys she has raised; Her golden locks float in the breeze, The purple buskins reach her knees; Her gilded quiver’s ringing sound Wakes echoes in the woods around. Ascanio, courteous, debonair, Rides close to show her every care; Collects the troop, on Lybian steeds, And harks them forth to doughty deeds. View halloo! The boar is started at the foot of the hills, the hounds are off, the hunters scatter and gallop up hill and down dale, dogged and indefatigable. Presently, shouts, bayings, howls of wounded dogs! All is over. Cardinal Ascanio appears, with flaming eye and flaming cheeks, his coat red, his knife redder still, near the boar dripping red. This is the epical, the intoxicating moment. The hounds tumble over each other, the whippers-in bestir themselves, the hunters come panting up from all directions. Suddenly all is hushed; as if by magic an exquisite repast is served; the sweet measured tones of guitars, the voices of singers, the plaudits of the banqueters alone wake the languid echoes, while huge flagons of a generous wine go round. Then Cardinal Castelli rises, and in his elegant Latin recites a Pindaric ode in honour of the victorious huntsman, “the empurpled senate’s glory and grace.” Nothing could be more piously orthodox or more delightful than this hunting ode. The Cardinal recalls how the Redeemer, “true religion’s lord and emperor,” has put vain deities to flight and given solace to perishing humanity, bringing life and strength and joy. Ascanio responds with this invocation: O Dian, virgin goddess of the woods and groves, Or whether it behoves To hail Proserpina, light of the glooming sky, Lucina, Hecate, or e’en Of the dim nether world the woful queen, Dictynna else, or Trivia—whosoe’er Dost to my swinking hours apply Thy constant care, Thee in my heart I hold eternally!