"To paint his person,--this was thin and dry; Well sorting it, his legs were spare and lean; Broad was his visage, and his nose was high, While narrow was the space that was between His eyebrows; sharp and blue his hollow eye, Which, buried in his beard, had not been seen, But that the master kept this thicket cleared. At mortal war with moustache and with beard." No one ever detested servitude as he did, though servitude was still his dole. He then whimsically describes himself as inhabiting the palace of a fairy; where, according to Bajardo, people are kept happily and merrily, amusing themselves, and passing their lives in indolence. Berni supposes himself to be one of the company, together with a French cook, Maitre Pierre Buffet, who had been in the service of Giberti; and he describes his beau-ideal of the indolent life he loved. Tired with noise, lights, and music, he finds a lonely room, and causes the servants to bring a bed into it,--a large bed,--in which he might stretch himself at pleasure; and, finding his friend the cook, another bed is brought into the same room for him, and between the two a table was placed: this table was well supplied with the most savoury viands:-- "But soup and syrup pleased the Florentine (_Berni_), Who loathed fatigue like death; and for his part, Brought neither teeth nor fingers into play, But made two varlets feed him as he lay. "Here couchant, nothing but his head was spied, Sheeted and quilted to the very chin; And needful food a serving man supplied Through pipe of silver placed the mouth within. Meanwhile the sluggard moved no part beside, Holding all motion else mere shame and sin: And (so his spirits and his health were broke), Not to fatigue this organ, seldom spoke." "The cook was Master Peter hight, and he Had tales at will to wile away the day; To him the Florentine:--'Those fools, pardie, Have little wit, who dance that endless way.' And Peter in return: 'I think with thee.' Then with some merry story back'd the say, Swallowed a mouthful, and turned round in bed, And so, by starts, talked, turned, and slept, and fed." * * * * "Above all other curses, pen and ink Were by the Tuscan held in hate and scorn, Who, worse than any loathsome sight or stink, Detested pen and paper, ink and horn. So deeply did a deadly venom sink, So fester'd in his flesh a rankling thorn, While, night and day, with heart and garments rent, Seven weary years the wretch in writing spent. "Of all their ways to baffle time and tide, This seems the strangest of their waking dreams: Couched on their backs, the two the rafters eyed, And taxed their drowsy wits to count the beams. 'T is thus they mark at leisure which is wide,' Which short, or which of due proportion seems, And which worm-eaten are, and which are sound, And if the total sum is odd or round."