FRA SEBASTIANO. 
My portrait of Vittoria Colonna.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
It makes her look as she will look hereafter,
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 pictures,
Since I have known her.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
             And you like this picture. 
And yet it is in oil; 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
Or wayside wine-shop.  ’T is an art for women,
Or for such leisurely and idle people
As you, Fra Bastiano.  Nature paints not
In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven
With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds
And flying vapors.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
             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,
Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow. 
Yet that is nature.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                    She is always right. 
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest
Is the best picture.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
                      Leonardo thinks
The open air too bright.  We ought to paint
As if the sun were shining through a mist. 
’T is easier done in oil than in distemper.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Do not revive again the old dispute;
I have an excellent memory for forgetting,
But I still feel the hurt.  Wounds are not healed
By the unbending of the bow that made them.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
But that is past.  Now I am angry with you,
Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat
And indolent, you do not paint at all.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Why should I paint?  Why should I toil and sweat,
Who now am rich enough to live at ease,
And take my pleasure?

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
              When Pope Leo died,
He who had been so lavish of the wealth
His predecessors left him, who received
A basket of gold-pieces every morning,
Which every night was empty, left behind
Hardly enough to pay his funeral.

FRA SEBASTIANO. 
I care for banquets, not for funerals,
As did his Holiness.  I have forbidden
All tapers at my burial, and procession
Of priests and friars and monks; and have provided
The cost thereof be given to the poor!

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
You have done wisely, but of that I speak not. 
Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children;
But who to-day would know that he had lived,
If he had never made those gates of bronze
In the old Baptistery,—­those gates of bronze,
Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. 
His wealth is scattered to the winds; his children
Are long since dead; but those celestial gates
Survive, and keep his name and memory green.