MICHAEL ANGELO. 
But divine Providence will never leave
The 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 composition
I had pursued the instructions that he gave me
Concerning 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 me
With such great talent; that I stand myself
A very idol in the world of art. 
He taunts me also with the Mausoleum
Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason
That men persuaded the inane old man
It was of evil augury to build
His tomb while he was living; and he speaks
Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me,
And calls it robbery;—­that is what he says. 
What prompted such a letter?

BENVENUTO. 
                             Vanity. 
He is a clever writer, and he likes
To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face
Of every honest man, as swordsmen do
Their rapiers on occasion, but to show
How skilfully they do it.  Had you followed
The 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 wish
To see his name in print.  So give it not
A moment’s thought; it soon will be forgotten.

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

BENVENUTO. 
                    And what answer
Shall 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 hand
As he may ask, and you may choose to give.

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
You have my answer.  Nothing he can offer
Shall tempt me to leave Rome.  My work is here,
And only here, the building of St. Peter’s. 
What other things I hitherto have done
Have fallen from me, are no longer mine;
I have passed on beyond them, and have left them
As milestones on the way.  What lies before me,
That is still mine, and while it is unfinished
No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me,
By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor,
Till I behold the finished dome uprise
Complete, as now I see it in my thought.

BENVENUTO. 
And will you paint no more?

MICHAEL ANGELO. 
                        No more.

BENVENUTO. 
                           ’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 breathe
Are 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.