from Bologna to the Signory, urgently requesting that they would despatch Michelangelo immediately to that town, inasmuch as the Pope was impatient for his arrival, and wanted to employ him on important works.  Six days later, November 27, Soderini writes two letters, one to the Cardinal of Pavia and one to the Cardinal of Volterra, which finally conclude the whole business.  The epistle to Volterra begins thus:  “The bearer of these present will be Michelangelo, the sculptor, whom we send to please and satisfy his Holiness.  We certify that he is an excellent young man, and in his own art without peer in Italy, perhaps also in the universe.  We cannot recommend him more emphatically.  His nature is such, that with good words and kindness, if these 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,