This letter is written under the autograph copy of a sonnet which must have been sent with it, since it expresses the same thought in its opening quatrain. My translation of the poem runs thus: _Seeking at least to be not all unfit For thy sublime and-boundless courtesy, My lowly thoughts at first were fain to try What they could yield for grace so infinite. But now I know my unassisted wit Is all too weak to make me soar so high, For pardon, lady, for this fault I cry, And wiser still I grow, remembering it. Yea, well I see what folly 'twere to think That largess dropped from thee like dews from heaven Could e'er be paid by work so frail as mine! To nothingness my art and talent sink; He fails who from his mortal stores hath given A thousandfold to match one gift divine_. Michelangelo's next letter refers to the design for the Crucified Christ, described by Condivi. It is pleasant to find that this was sent by the hand of Cavalieri: "Lady Marchioness,--Being myself in Rome, I thought it hardly fitting to give the Crucified Christ to Messer Tommaso, and to make him an intermediary between your ladyship and me, your servant; especially because it has been my earnest wish to perform more for you than for any one I ever knew upon the world. But absorbing occupations, which still engage me, have prevented my informing your ladyship of this. Moreover, knowing that you know that love needs no taskmaster, and that he who loves doth not sleep, I thought the less of using go-betweens. And though I seemed to have forgotten, I was doing what I did not talk about in order to effect a thing that was not looked for. My purpose has been spoiled: _He sins who faith like this so soon forgets._" A sonnet which may or may not have been written at this time, but seems certainly intended for the Marchioness, shall here be given as a pendant to the letter:-- _Blest spirit, who with loving tenderness Quickenest my heart, so old and near to die, Who 'mid thy joys on me dost bend an eye, Though many nobler men around thee press! As thou wert erewhile wont my sight to bless, So to console, my mind thou now dost fly; Hope therefore stills the pangs of memory, Which, coupled with desire, my soul distress. So finding in thee grace to plead for me-- Thy thoughts for me sunk in so sad a case-- He who now writes returns thee thanks for these. Lo! it were foul and monstrous usury To send thee ugliest paintings in the place Of thy fair spirit's living phantasies.