“From this sonnet,” says Varchi, “I think that any man possessed of judgment will be able to discern to what extent this angel, or rather archangel, in addition to his three first and most noble professions of architecture, sculpture, and painting, wherein without dispute he not only eclipses all the moderns, but even surpasses the ancients, proves himself also excellent, nay singular, in poetry, and in the true art of loving; the which art is neither less fair nor less difficult, albeit it be more necessary and more profitable than the other four.  Whereof no one ought to wonder:  for this reason; that, over and above what is manifest to everybody, namely that nature, desirous of exhibiting her utmost power, chose to fashion a complete man, and (as the Latins say) one furnished in all proper parts; he, in addition to the gifts of nature, of such sort and so liberally scattered, added such study and a diligence so great that, even had he been by birth most rugged, he might through these means have become consummate in all virtue:  and supposing he were born, I do not say in Florence and of a very noble family, in the time too of Lorenzo the Magnificent, who recognised, willed, knew, and had the power to elevate so vast a genius; but in Scythia, of any stock or stem you like, under some commonplace barbarian chief, a fellow not disdainful merely, but furiously hostile to all intellectual ability; still, in all circumstances, under any star, he would have been Michelangelo, that is to say, the unique painter, the singular sculptor, the most perfect architect, the most excellent poet, and a lover of the most divinest.  For the which reasons I (it is now many years ago), holding his name not only in admiration, but also in veneration, before I knew that he was architect already, made a sonnet; with which (although it be as much below the supreme greatness of his worth as it is unworthy of your most refined and chastened ears) I mean to close this present conference; reserving the discussion on the arts (in obedience to our Consul’s orders) for another lecture.

  Illustrious sculptor, ’twas enough and more,
    Not with the chisel-and bruised bronze alone,
    But also with brush, colour, pencil, tone,
    To rival, nay, surpass that fame of yore. 
  But now, transcending what those laurels bore
    Of pride and beauty for our age and zone. 
    You climb of poetry the third high throne,
    Singing love’s strife and-peace, love’s sweet and sore. 
  O wise, and dear to God, old man well born,
    Who in so many, so fair ways, make fair
    This world, how shall your dues be dully paid? 
  Doomed by eternal charters to adorn
    Nature and art, yourself their mirror are,
    None, first before, nor second after, made."