hese are given him, he will do everything; one has to show him
love and treat him kindly, and he will perform things which will make
the whole world wonder." The letter to Pavia is written more
familiarly, reading like a private introduction. In both of them
Soderini enhances the service he is rendering the Pope by alluding to
the magnificent design for the Battle of Pisa which Michelangelo must
leave unfinished.

Before describing his reception at Bologna, it may be well to quote
two sonnets here which throw an interesting light upon Michelangelo's
personal feeling for Julius and his sense of the corruption of the
Roman Curia. The first may well have been written during this
residence at Florence; and the autograph of the second has these
curious words added at the foot of the page: "_Vostro Michelagniolo_,
in Turchia." Rome itself, the Sacred City, has become a land of
infidels, and Michelangelo, whose thoughts are turned to the Levant,
implies that he would find himself no worse off with the Sultan than
the Pope.

_My Lord! If ever ancient saw spake sooth,
Hear this which saith: Who can doth never will.
Lo, thou hast lent thine ear to fables still.
Rewarding those who hate the name of truth.
I am thy drudge, and have been from my youth--
Thine, like the rays which the sun's circle fill;
Yet of my dear time's waste thou think'st no ill:
The more I toil, the less I move thy ruth.
Once 'twas my hope to raise me by thy height;
But 'tis the balance and the powerful sword
Of Justice, not false Echo, that we need.
Heaven, as it seems, plants virtue in despite
Here on the earth, if this be our reward--
To seek for fruit on trees too dry to breed.

Here helms and swords are made of chalices:
The blood of Christ is sold so much the quart:
His cross and thorns are spears and shields; and short
Must be the time ere even His patience cease._
_Nay, let Him come no more to raise the fees.
Of this foul sacrilege beyond, report:
For Rome still flays and sells Him at the court,
Where paths are closed, to virtue's fair increase,
Now were fit time for me to scrape a treasure,
Seeing that work and gain are gone; while he
Who wears the robe, is my Medusa still.
God welcomes poverty perchance with pleasure:
But of that better life what hope have we,
When the blessed banner leads to nought but ill?_

While Michelangelo was planning fr