Petrarch’s flame for Laura was in reality unabated.  One day he met her in the streets of Avignon; for he had not always resolution enough to keep out of the western Babylon.  Laura cast a kind look upon him, and said, “Petrarch, you are tired of loving me.”  This incident produced one of the finest sonnets, beginning—­

          Io non fut d’ amar voi lassato unquanco.

    Tired, did you say, of loving you?  Oh, no! 
    I ne’er shall tire of the unwearying flame. 
    But I am weary, kind and cruel dame,
    With tears that uselessly and ceaseless flow,
    Scorning myself, and scorn’d by you.  I long
    For death:  but let no gravestone hold in view
    Our names conjoin’d:  nor tell my passion strong
    Upon the dust that glow’d through life for you. 
    And yet this heart of amorous faith demands,
    Deserves, a better boon; but cruel, hard
    As is my fortune, I will bless Love’s bands
    For ever, if you give me this reward.

In 1339, he composed among other sonnets, those three, the lxii., lxxiv., and lxxv., which are confessedly master-pieces of their kind, as well as three canzoni to the eyes of Laura, which the Italians call the three sister Graces, and worship as divine.[H] The critic Tassoni himself could not censure them, and called them the queens of song.  At this period, however seldom he may have visited Avignon, he evidently sought rather to cherish than subdue his fatal attachment.  A celebrated painter, Simone Martini of Siena, came to Avignon.  He was the pupil of Giotto, not exquisite in drawing, but famous for taking spirited likenesses.

Petrarch persuaded Simone to favour him with a miniature likeness of Laura; and this treasure the poet for ever carried about with him.  In gratitude he addressed two sonnets to the artist, whose fame, great as it was, was heightened by the poetical reward.  Vasari tells us that Simone also painted the pictures of both lovers in the chapel of St. Maria Novella at Florence; that Simone was a sculptor as well as a painter, and that he copied those pictures in marbles which, according to Baldelli, are still extant in the house of the Signore Pruzzi.

An anecdote relating to this period of Petrarch’s life is given by De Sade, which, if accepted with entire credence, must inspire us with astonishment at the poet’s devotion to his literary pursuits.  He had now, in 1339, put the first hand to his epic poem, the Scipiade; and one of his friends, De Sade believes that it was the Bishop of Lombes, fearing lest he might injure his health by overzealous application, went to ask him for the key of his library, which the poet gave up.  The Bishop then locked up his books and papers, and commanded him to abstain from reading and writing for ten days.  Petrarch obeyed; but on the first day of this literary Ramazan, he was seized with ennui, on the second with a severe headache, and on the third with symptoms of fever; the Bishop relented, and permitted the student to return to his books and papers.