A statue of Mars Armipotent for the Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful. As one who, in the midst of all his fol- Had also his ambition, and aspired MICHAEL ANGELO. Do not forget the vision. [Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia. Now in what circle of his poem sacred Would the great Florentine have placed this man? Whether in Phlegethon, the river of Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is one Whose passions, like a potent alkahest, Come back, my thoughts, from him to IV. FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO. MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. FRA SEBASTIANO. He ran against me On the first landing, going at full speed; Wait, for I am out of breath Dressed like the Spanish captain in a In climbing your steep stairs. MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, my Bastiano, If you went up and down as many stairs As I do still, and climbed as many ladders, It would be better for you. Pray sit down. Your idle and luxurious way of living Will one day take your breath away entirely, And you will never find it. play, With his long rapier and his short red When journeying in the forest of Ar- | And he was present, and from observa dennes! tion Informed me how the picture should be painted. FRA SEBASTIANO. What unassuming, unobtrusive men These critics are! Now, to have Are tiuo Aiming his shafts at you brings back to inind The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble Throw stones at night. But Aretino praised you. MICHAEL ANGELO. His praises were ironical. He knows How to use words as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture! FRA SEBASTIANO. My portrait of Vittoria Colonna. MICHAEL ANGELO. It makes her look as she will look here after, When she becomes a saint! FRA SEBASTIANO. A noble woman! MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes In marble, and can paint diviner pic tures, Since I have known her. FRA SEBASTIANO. And you like this picture; And yet it is in oils, which you detest. MICHAEL ANGELO. When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered The use of oil in painting, he degraded His art into a handicraft, and made it Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn And how soon they fade! Behold yon line of roofs and belfries painted Upon the golden background of the sky, Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait Of Cimabue. See how hard the outline, I care for banquets, not for funerals, Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into As did his Holiness. I have forbidden So say Petrarca and the ancient prov- Have been already painted; and if not, erb. Why, there are painters in the world at |