And sweet and thrilling voices make the breeze
Melodious with the envied name of Sforza!
Young Julian by his side, seems to enjoy
A second triumph, glorying in the friend
Who taught his arm to wield the sword, and pluck
The never-fading laurels which he wears
So proudly on his brow, from Austria's plains.
They come; I hear the long protracted shout.
Approach the lattice, good my lord, and view
The pageant as it passes.
Angelo.
No, no, no;
It is enough, that from my columned porch
Up to the pediment, green wreaths are hung,
And gold-wrought flags, and silken streamers wave
From every balcony. This will suffice—
I need not undergo a martyrdom—
Expose my person to the mocking gaze
Of the vile rabble, as, in times of old,
The conquered captive graced the chariot-wheels
