To Vasari he sent a sonnet denouncing the artistic passion which
abandons itself completely to art:
Now know I well that that fond phantasy
Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall
Of earthly art is vain.
(_Transl. by_ J.A. SYMONDS.)
Faith, is to him "the mercy of mercies," for he has never possessed its
deepest conviction.
But the passion which burned in him remained unquelled to the last: his
soul is torn between love and the thought of death.
Flames of love
And chill of death are battling in my heart.
He longed to break away from love and find peace, and he called on death
for delivery, but in vain:
Burdened with years and full of sinfulness
With evil customs grown inveterate,
Both deaths I dread that both before me wait,
Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.
(_Transl. by_ J.A. SYMONDS.)
And later on he thanks love again for being his deliverer, and not
death.
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