Benvenuto. Hypocrite!

He says I show mankind that I am wantingIn piety and religion, in proportionAs I profess perfection in my art.Profess perfection? Why, 't is only menLike Bugiardini who are satisfiedWith what they do. I never am content,But always see the labors of my handFall short of my conception.

I perceiveThe malice of this creature. He would taint youWith heresy, and in a time like this!'T is infamous!

I represent the angelsWithout their heavenly glory, and the saintsWithout a trace of earthly modesty.

Incredible audacity!

The heathenVeiled their Diana with some drapery,And when they represented Venus nakedThey made her by her modest attitude,Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian,Do so subordinate belief to artThat I have made the very violationOf modesty in martyrs and in virginsA spectacle at which all men would gazeWith half-averted eyes even in a brothel.

He is at home there, and he ought to knowWhat men avert their eyes from in such places;From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine.

But divine Providence will never leaveThe boldness of my marvellous work unpunished;And the more marvellous it is, the more'T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame!And finally, if in this compositionI had pursued the instructions that he gave meConcerning heaven and hell and paradise,In that same letter, known to all the world,Nature would not be forced, as she is now,To feel ashamed that she invested meWith such great talent; that I stand myselfA very idol in the world of art.He taunts me also with the MausoleumOf Julius, still unfinished, for the reasonThat men persuaded the inane old manIt was of evil augury to buildHis tomb while he was living; and he speaksOf heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me,And calls it robbery;--that is what he says.What prompted such a letter?

Vanity.He is a clever writer, and he likesTo draw his pen, and flourish it in the faceOf every honest man, as swordsmen doTheir rapiers on occasion, but to showHow skilfully they do it. Had you followedThe advice he gave, or even thanked him for it,You would have seen another style of fence.'T is but his wounded vanity, and the wishTo see his name in print. So give it notA moment's thought; it soon will be forgotten.

I will not think of it, but let it passFor a rude speech thrown at me in the street,As boys threw stones at Dante.

And what answerShall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo?He does not ask your labor or your service;Only your presence in the city of Florence,With such advice upon his work in handAs he may ask, and you may choose to give.

You have my answer. Nothing he can offerShall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here,And only here, the building of St. Peter's.What other things I hitherto have doneHave fallen from me, are no longer mine;I have passed on beyond them, and have left themAs milestones on the way. What lies before me,That is still mine, and while it is unfinishedNo one shall draw me from it, or persuade me,By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor,Till I behold the finished dome upriseComplete, as now I see it in my thought.

And will you paint no more?

No more.

'T is well.Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature,That fashions all her works in high relief,And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth,Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire;Men, women, and all animals that breatheAre statues, and not paintings. Even the plants,The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured,And colored later. Painting is a lie,A shadow merely.

Truly, as you say,Sculpture is more than painting. It is greaterTo raise the dead to life than to createPhantoms that seem to live. The most majesticOf the three sister arts is that which builds;The eldest of them all, to whom the othersAre but the hand-maids and the servitors,Being but imitation, not creation.Henceforth I dedicate myself to her.

And no more from the marble hew those formsThat fill us all with wonder?

Many statuesWill there be room for in my work. Their stationAlready is assigned them in my mind.But things move slowly. There are hindrances,Want of material, want of means, delaysAnd interruptions, endless interferenceOf Cardinal Commissioners, and disputesAnd jealousies of artists, that annoy me.But twill persevere until the workIs wholly finished, or till I sink downSurprised by death, that unexpected guest,Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps in,Unasked and unannounced, to put a stopTo all our occupations and designs.And then perhaps I may go back to Florence;This is my answer to Duke Cosimo.