The French King

The Borgias 1×6

& Giovanni Sforza: I see now that nobility springs from the soul... not from the blood. I forgive you the accident of your family name.
    Lucrezia: I must... accept your forgiveness, then, my lord, for the... accident of my Borgia blood.

& Giulia Farnese: You find the art of politics more engrossing than...
    Borgia: Than the art of love?
    Giulia Farnese: Did I say that?
    Borgia: They have more in common than you might think.
    Giulia Farnese: I would doubt that.
    Borgia: Let us take... your most elegant leg. A perfect metaphor for Italian politics. Here... we have France, the source of all disquiet. But travelling south across the Alps... we find the dukedom of Milan... And below her, Florence. And here, this little mound... is Rome. But Naples... is your elegant calf... your exquisite ankle... your heel... your sole... and your most delicious toe. Now lying here... it may not seem important. But try to stand, and you’ll find that all your balance comes from here.
    Giulia Farnese: Naples.
    Borgia: Hmm. Naples. But now... I’m going to invade... fair France.

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& Charles VIII: You want me to march to Rome, depose that Borgia, give you the papal crown, in the hope that you’ll place the crown of Naples on this ugly head?
    Della Rovere: I want to restore the Universal Church to her former dignity.
    Charles VIII: Couldn’t this Borgia do the same?
    Della Rovere: Restore the Church?
    Charles VIII: Place the Crown of Naples on this ugly noggin.
    Della Rovere: Noggin?
    Charles VIII: Head.

& Ursula: You were ordained a priest, and yet you blaspheme thus.
    Cesare: If appreciation of your beauty is blasphemy, consider me a blasphemer indeed. A blasphemer and a heretic.

& Charles VIII: You would entice me to battle... but do you understand what that means?
    Della Rovere: It means a just war, in defense of Christendom.
    Charles VIII: No war is just. War is chaos, brute force mustered against brute force, until one side is destroyed, utterly. I have read of your Italian battles... Hired mercenaries, on feathered horseback, prancing like peacocks one against the other until one side retires, with something called honor? Heh! But there is no honor in war. The French learned that against the English. There is blood, death, armor against armor, until one side surrenders, in death or domination. Be careful what you pray for Cardinal, if you pray for war. You will find yourself in a place beyond prayer itself.

& Lucrezia: I find the more confined husbands become the more... tolerable. I could write a book about it... Perhaps I will.

& Lucrezia: I hate her.
    Cesare: If you hate beauty, dear sis, you must hate yourself.
    Lucrezia: All right. I will love her then. But deep down, somewhere, I still hate her.

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On the IMDb