4 
MORTADELLO 
 
ALESSANDRO. 
 
A woman’s whim ? 
For doubtless every one says his wife poisoned him. 
LUCREZIA.  And Mortadello rules in everything but name. 
ALESSANDRO.  This comedy of fools !  He weds the widowed 
dame ? 
LUCREZIA.  Why, yes !  You’re shrewd as shrewd !  Lorenzo 
you are dumb ! 
ALESSANDRO.  Yes, but he’s lewd as lewd !  It’s all you need, in 
sum ! 
LUCREZIA.  And you’re as rude as rude ! 
ALESSANDRO. 
 
I’m sorry ;  those things come 
Like lightning.  Is there none makes head against him still ? 
LUCREZIA.  Of course, there is the one. 
ALESSANDRO. 
That girl ! 
LORENZO. 
 
O miracle 
Of heaven, a virgin sent from heaven in purest pity 
With innermost intent to save our hapless city. 
O Monica !  the meek and mystic eremite ! 
ALESSANDRO.  No gardeners ?  It’s odd !—O maid of—who 
God knows ! 
LORENZO.  Her knees are worn with prayers !  With fasts her 
frame is weak ! 
ALESSANDRO.  I know—I have been there !  I could not move 
or speak ! 
LORENZO.  Yours is a loathsome mind. 
ALESSANDRO. 
 
You—cultivate the same ! 
These ladies you might find reciprocate your flame. 
With love the man who trifles, advancement surely misses— 
Affairs of state one stifles with very skilful kisses !