THE DUKE:
How?

ROXANE (to the Duke):
He exaggerates!

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):
Time will show!

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!--