Le Bret.
All that I prophesied: desertion, want!…
His letters now make him fresh enemies!—
Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout,
Sham brave, the thieving authors, all the world!
Roxane.
Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check;
None get the better of him.
The Duke.
[shaking his head].
Le Bret.
Ah, but I fear for him—not man's attack,—
Solitude—hunger—cold December days,
That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:—
Lo! the assassins that I fear for him!
Each day he tightens by one hole his belt:
That poor nose—tinted like old ivory:
He has retained one shabby suit of serge.
The Duke.
Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!—
Yet is not to be pitied!
Le Bret.
[with a bitter smile].
The Duke.
Pity him not! He has lived out his vows,
Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!
