The following tale and poem in Latin (which I have done into prose) were sent to Lorenzo by Bartolommeo Scala,[305] who prided himself on his literary conceits and on his pure Latinity. I insert them as they are typical of the conceits of the fifteenth century. Bartolommeo Scala _to_ Lorenzo de’ Medici _at Bagno a Morba_ My Patron, greeting,--Last September when I was at Morba, where you now are, for my gout, I composed a conceit on the nymph Amorba, childish enough perhaps. If you have time to read this it may not displease you. Trifles of this kind sometimes give pleasure. Indeed those who have been with you inform me that you have sought anew the society of the Muses and are their constant boon companion. Of a truth they can heal our diseases much more pleasantly than any baths. This indeed is attested with perhaps a certain neatness by an apologue of mine. It is as follows. Once upon a time Immortality and Old Age were quarrelling. The cause was small, the quarrel was and still is a grievous one. Immortality had reared from the nest a tame jackdaw, cunning, thievish, clever, with a power of imitating our language not unmusically. She had kept it in luxury for ninety years. The neighbours actually approved of it in their enjoyment of the constant jesting and laughter which it caused. For it used secretly to steal from the tailor’s workboxes rings and needles and other implements, and then, when the fancy seized it, all of a sudden gave them back. How the onlookers used to laugh and applaud when it brought a modest blush to a maiden’s cheek as she walked along the road by calling with a gentle chuckle Ω χόρη καλη[306] (it had learnt Greek as well as Latin) Ἡλίου ὡς ὁμοιῷ φωτί.[307] But Old Age was envious and sent disease, her frequent minister, and killed the jackdaw. So was war kindled. Then when Old Age had taken many towns, and sacked many cities, she forced Immortality at length to take refuge in her citadel. Her citadel stands on a high mountain. Its walls and battlements are of brass, but the rooms of its inner chambers of sweetest-smelling cedarwood. The enemy is held at bay (and this no one who did not know would easily believe) by maidens alone, by three maidens with their songs and verses. Now, could you but extract the harmonies of these maidens from the letters in which they are written and manage to apply them to your bare breast and heart, there is nothing so health-giving against all diseases of body and mind. I commend myself to you. Farewell.--Florence, April 15, 1484. Thy Bartolommeo Scala.[308] “_In Amorpham Nympham_,” _Latin poem by_ Bartolommeo Scala, _sent to_ Lorenzo De’ Medici _at Bagno a Morba, April 25, 1484_