_The man, for all that, was a happy man; Thought not too much; indulged no gloomy fit; Folks wished him well. Prince, peasant, artisan, Every one loved him; for the rogue had wit, And knew how to amuse. His fancy ran On thousands of odd things which he had writ: Certain mad waggeries in the shape of poems, With strange elaborations of their proems._ _Choleric he was withal, when fools reproved him; Free of his tongue, as he was frank of heart; Ambition, avarice, neither of these moved him; True to his word; caressing without art; A lover to excess of those that loved him; Yet, if he met with hate, could play a part Which showed the fiercest he had found his mate; Still he was proner far to love than hate._ _In person he was big, yet tight and lean, Had long thin legs, big nose, and a large face; Eyebrows which there was little space between; Deep-set, blue eyes; and beard in such good case That the poor eyes would scarcely have been seen Had it been suffered to forget its place; But, not approving beards to that amount. The owner brought it to a sharp account._ Berni’s death did him more honour than his life. The suppressed dedication to the twentieth canto of his _Orlando_ seems to prove that he had become serious in his later years, and fallen under Protestant influences; but this was unknown to Cardinal Cibo, who deemed him the right sort of man to commend a poisoned chalice to the lips of Cardinal Salviati; and his refusal, there is every reason to believe, cost him his own life (1535). He died with strong symptoms of poison, was buried hastily without epitaph or monument, and, although his works were collected, nothing was said of the author. This sudden silence corroborates the suspicion of his Protestantism.