I speak of Dante, whose high work remains
      Unknown, unhonoured by that thankless brood,
      Who only to just men deny their wage. 
    Were I but he!  Born for like lingering pains,
      Against his exile coupled with his good
      I’d gladly change the world’s best heritage!

QUANTE DIRNI SI DE’

    No tongue can tell of him what should be told,
      For on blind eyes his splendour shines too strong;
      ’Twere easier to blame those who wrought him wrong,
    Than sound his least praise with a mouth of gold.

    He to explore the place of pain was bold,
      Then soared to God, to teach our souls by song;
      The gates heaven oped to bear his feet along,
    Against his just desire his country rolled.

    Thankless I call her, and to her own pain
      The nurse of fell mischance; for sign take this,
      That ever to the best she deals more scorn: 
    Among a thousand proofs let one remain;
      Though ne’er was fortune more unjust than his,
      His equal or his better ne’er was born.

About the date of the two next sonnets there is less doubt.  The first was clearly written when Michael Angelo was smarting under a sense of the ill-treatment he received from Julius.  The second, composed at Rome, is interesting as the only proof we possess of the impression made upon his mind by the anomalies of the Papal rule.  Here, in the capital of Christendom, he writes, holy things are sold for money to be used in warfare, and the pontiff, quel nel manto, paralyses the powers of the sculptor by refusing him employment.[419]

SIGNOR, SE VERO E

    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 ills
    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.

QUA SI FA ELMI

    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 fraud and sacrilege beyond report! 
      For Rome still slays and sells Him at the court,
    Where paths are closed to virtue’s fair increase.