Go to his City! putting crime aside,

Half of these ills of Italy are feigned:
Your Pellicos and writers for effect,
Write for effect.

Luigi. Hush! say A. writes, and B.

Mother. These A.'s and B.'s write for effect, I say.

Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good!
Is silent; you hear each petty injury,
None of his daily virtues; he is old,
Quiet, and kind, and densely stupid. Why
Do A. and B. not kill him themselves?

Luigi. They teach
Others to kill him—me—and, if I fail,

Others to succeed; now, if A. tried and failed,
I could not teach that: mine's the lesser task.
Mother, they visit night by night...

Mother. —You, Luigi?
Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?

Luigi. Why net? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,
You may assure yourself I say and say
Ever to myself; at times—nay, even as now
We sit, I think my mind is touched—suspect
All is not sound: but is not knowing that,

What constitutes one sane or otherwise?
I know I am thus—so all is right again!
I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,
And see men merry as if no Italy
Were suffering; then I ponder—'I am rich,
Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me,
More than it troubles these?' But it does trouble!

No—trouble's a bad word—for as I walk
There's springing and melody and giddiness,
And old quaint turns and passages of my youth—