Lionardo Buonarroti was at last married to Cassandra, the daughter of Donato Ridolfi, upon the 16th of May 1553.  One of the dearest wishes which had occupied his uncle’s mind so long, came thus to its accomplishment.  His letters are full of kindly thoughts for the young couple, and of prudent advice to the husband, who had not arranged all matters connected with the settlements to his own satisfaction.  Michelangelo congratulated Lionardo heartily upon his happiness, and told him that he was minded to send the bride a handsome present, in token of his esteem.  “I have not been able to do so yet, because Urbino was away.  Now that he has returned, I shall give expression to my sentiments.  They tell me that a fine pearl necklace of some value would be very proper.  I have sent a goldsmith, Urbino’s friend, in search of such an ornament, and hope to find it; but say nothing to her, and if you would like me to choose another article, please let me know.”  This letter winds up with a strange admonition:  “Look to living, reflect and weigh things well; for the number of widows in the world is always larger than that of the widowers.”  Ultimately he decided upon two rings, one a diamond, the other a ruby.  He tells Lionardo to have the stones valued in case he has been cheated, because he does not understand such things; and is glad to hear in due course that the jewels are genuine.  After the proper interval, Cassandra expected her confinement, and Michelangelo corresponded with his nephew as to the child’s name in case it was a boy.  “I shall be very pleased if the name of Buonarroto does not die out of our family, it having lasted three hundred years with us.”  The child was born upon the 16th of May 1544, turned out a boy, and received the name of Buonarroto.  Though Lionardo had seven other children, including Michelangelo the younger (born November 4, 1568), this Buonarroto alone continued the male line of the family.  The old man in Rome remarked resignedly during his later years, when he heard the news of a baby born and dead, that “I am not surprised; there was never in our family more than one at a time to keep it going.”

Buonarroto was christened with some pomp, and Vasari wrote to Michelangelo describing the festivities.  In the year 1554, Cosimo de’ Medici had thrown his net round Siena.  The Marquis of Marignano reduced the city first to extremities by famine, and finally to enslavement by capitulation.  These facts account for the tone of Michelangelo’s answer to Vasari’s letter:  “Yours has given me the greatest pleasure, because it assures me that you remember the poor old man; and more perhaps because you were present at the triumph you narrate, of seeing another Buonarroto reborn.  I thank you heartily for the information.  But I must say that I am displeased with so much pomp and show.  Man ought not to laugh when the whole world weeps.  So I think that Lionardo has not displayed great judgment, particularly in celebrating a nativity with all that joy and gladness which ought to be reserved for the decease of one who has lived well.”  There is what may be called an Elizabethan note—­something like the lyrical interbreathings of our dramatists—­in this blending of jubilation and sorrow, discontent and satisfaction, birth and death thoughts.