What of that? his name?

      Do they not seem a valiant company

      Of honourable, honest gentlemen?

      His name, milord?

      The man to whom I kneel

      Is he who sold your father! mark me well.

      The Duke!

      Leave off that fingering of thy knife.

      Hast thou so soon forgotten?  [Kneels to the Duke.]

      My noble Lord.

      Welcome, Count Moranzone; ’tis some time

      Since we have seen you here in Padua.

      We hunted near your castle yesterday —

      Call you it castle? that bleak house of yours

      Wherein you sit a-mumbling o’er your beads,

      Telling your vices like a good old man.

      Who is that?

      My sister’s son, your Grace,

      Who being now of age to carry arms,

      Would for a season tarry at your Court

      What is his name?

      Guido Ferranti, sir.

      His city?

      He is Mantuan by birth.

      You have the eyes of one I used to know,

      But he died childless.  Are you honest, boy?

      Then be not spendthrift of your honesty,

      But keep it to yourself; in Padua

      Men think that honesty is ostentatious, so

      It is not of the fashion.  Look at these lords.

      Here is some bitter arrow for us, sure.

      Why, every man among them has his price,

      Although, to do them justice, some of them

      Are quite expensive.

      There it comes indeed.

      So be not honest; eccentricity

      Is not a thing should ever be encouraged,

      Although, in this dull stupid age of ours,

      The most eccentric thing a man can do

      Is to have brains, then the mob mocks at him;

      And for the mob, despise it as I do,

      I hold its bubble praise and windy favours

      In such account, that popularity

      Is the one insult I have never suffered.

      He has enough of hate, if he needs that.

      Have prudence; in your dealings with the world

      Be not too hasty; act on the second thought,

      First impulses are generally good.

      Surely a toad sits on his lips, and spills its venom there.

      See thou hast enemies,

      Else will the world think very little of thee;

      It is its test of power; yet see thou show’st

      A smiling mask of friendship to all men,

      Until thou hast them safely in thy grip,

      Then thou canst crush them.

      O wise philosopher!

      That for thyself dost dig so deep a grave.

      Dost thou mark his words?

      Oh, be thou sure I do.

      And be not over-scrupulous; clean hands

      With nothing in them make a sorry show.

      If you would have the lion’s share of life

      You must wear the fox’s skin.  Oh, it will fit you;

      It is a coat which fitteth every man.

      Your Grace, I shall remember.

      That is well, boy, well.

      I would not have about me shallow fools,

      Who with mean scruples weigh the gold of life,

      And faltering, paltering, end by failure; failure,

      The only crime which I have not committed:

      I would have men about me.  As for conscience,

      Conscience is but the name which cowardice

      Fleeing from battle scrawls upon its shield.

      You understand me, boy?

      I do, your Grace,

      And will in all things carry out the creed

      Which you have taught me.

      I never heard your Grace

      So much in the vein for preaching; let the Cardinal

      Look to his laurels, sir.

      The Cardinal!

      Men follow my creed, and they gabble his.

      I do not think much of the Cardinal;

      Although he is a holy churchman, and

      I quite admit his dulness.  Well, sir, from now

      We count you of our household