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Stephen Vincent Benet - Alexander VI Dines With The Cardinal Of Capua
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Next, then, the peacock, gilt 
With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes 
Flow in the eyes! 
And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt 
Along the back, that like a sea-wave`s crest 
Scatters soft beauty o`er th` emblazoned breast! 

A strange fowl! But most fit 
For feasts like this, whereby I honor one 
Pure as the sun! 
Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it! 
Some wine? Your goblet`s empty? Let it foam! 
It is not often that you come to Rome! 

You like the Venice glass? 
Rippled with lines that float like women`s curls, 
Neck like a girl`s, 
Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass? 
You start — `twas artist then, not Pope who spoke! 
Ave Maria stella! — ah, it broke! 

`Tis said they break alone 
When poison writhes within. A foolish tale! 
What, you look pale? 
Caraffa, fetch a silver cup! . . . You own 
A Birth of Venus, now — or so I`ve heard, 
Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird. 

Also a Dancing Faun, 
Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles; 
Globed pearls to please 
A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn — 
How happy I could be with but a tithe 
Of your possessions, fortunate one! Don`t writhe 

But take these cushions here! 
Now for the fruit! Great peaches, satin-skinned, 
Rough tamarind, 
Pomegranates red as lips — oh they come dear! 
But men like you we feast at any price — 
A plum perhaps? They`re looking rather nice! 

I`ll cut the thing in half. 
There`s yours! Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife 
One might snuff life 
And leave one`s friend with — "fool" for epitaph! 
An old trick? Truth! But when one has the itch 
For pretty things and isn`t very rich. . . . 

There, eat it all or I`ll 
Be angry! You feel giddy? Well, it`s hot! 
This bergamot 
Take home and smell — it purges blood of bile! 
And when you kiss Bianca`s dimpled knee, 
Think of the poor Pope in his misery! 

Now you may kiss my ring! 
Ho there, the Cardinal`s litter! — You must dine 
When the new wine 
Is in, again with me — hear Bice sing, 
Even admire my frescoes — though they`re nought 
Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought! 

Godspeed, Sir Cardinal! 
And take a weak man`s blessing! Help him there 
To the cool air! . . . 
Lucrezia here? You`re ready for the ball? 
— He`ll die within ten hours, I suppose — 
Mhm! Kiss your poor old father, little rose!
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