“By the singular favour of Heaven we have regained the ancient right of being governed by a prince of our own nation.[L] Let Germany say what she will, Italy is veritably your country * * * * * Come with haste to restore peace to Italy.  Behold Rome, once the empress of the world, now pale, with scattered locks and torn garments, at your feet, imploring your presence and support!” Then follows a dissertation on the history and heroes of Rome, which might be wearisome if transcribed to a modern reader.  But the epistle, upon the whole, is manly and eloquent.

A few days after despatching his letter to the Emperor, Petrarch made a journey to Verona to see his friends.  There he wrote to Socrates.  In this letter, after enumerating the few friends whom the plague had spared, he confesses that he could not flatter himself with the hope of being able to join them in Provence.  He therefore invokes them to come to Italy, and to settle either at Parma or at Padua, or any other place that would suit them.  His remaining friends, here enumerated, were only Barbato of Sulmona, Francesco Rinucci, John Boccaccio, Laelius, Guido Settimo, and Socrates.

Petrarch had returned to Padua, there to rejoin the Cardinal of Boulogne.  The Cardinal came back thither at the end of April, 1350, and, after dispensing his blessings, spiritual and temporal, set out for Avignon, travelling by way of Milan and Genoa.  Petrarch accompanied the prelate out of personal attachment on a part of his journey.  The Cardinal was fond of his conversation, but sometimes rallied the poet on his enthusiasm for his native Italy.  When they reached the territory of Verona, near the lake of Guarda, they were struck by the beauty of the prospect, and stopped to contemplate it.  In the distance were the Alps, topped with snow even in summer.  Beneath was the lake of Guarda, with its flux and reflux, like the sea, and around them were the rich hills and fertile valleys.  “It must be confessed,” said the Legate to Petrarch, “that your country is more beautiful than ours.”  The face of Petrarch brightened up.  “But you must agree,” continued the Cardinal, perhaps to moderate the poet’s exultation, “that ours is more tranquil.”  “That is true,” replied Petrarch, “but we can obtain tranquillity whenever we choose to come to our senses, and desire peace, whereas you cannot procure those beauties which nature has lavished on us.”

Petrarch here took leave of the Cardinal, and set out for Parma.  Taking Mantua in his way, he set out from thence in the evening, in order to sleep at Luzora, five leagues from the Po.  The lords of that city had sent a courier to Mantua, desiring that he would honour them with his presence at supper.  The melting snows and the overflowing river had made the roads nearly impassable; but he reached the place in time to avail himself of the invitation.  His hosts gave him a magnificent reception.  The supper was exquisite, the dishes rare, the wines delicious, and the company full of gaiety.  But a small matter, however, will spoil the finest feast.  The supper was served up in a damp, low hall, and all sorts of insects annoyed the convivials.  To crown their misfortune an army of frogs, attracted, no doubt, by the odour of the meats, crowded and croaked about them, till they were obliged to leave their unfinished supper.