Do we need other specimens of these gracious and somewhat ultra-refined letters? Here is a letter from Castiglione to the famous Marchesa Hippolyta Florimonda Scaldasole: “Most excellent lady, if your ladyship were as pleased to know you dwell eternally in my memory, as ’twould be infinitely delightful for me to dwell in yours, I should be keenly desirous of giving you proof of it in this letter, since for the moment I can do it in no other way. But as your ladyship has shown the world, along with your many other wondrous gifts, that you are a woman valiant in fight, and not only beautiful, but warlike also like Hippolyta of old, I fear me lest you be somewhat puffed up with pride, and somewhat forgetful of your servitors—and I would not have it so. Therefore have I made bold to write to you, and to pray Messer Camillo Ghilino, my very dear friend, to speak on my behoof, and to tell you that in Spain, as at Milan and at Pavia, I am your man; and that, when I had come to Pavia, whither the army led me, those walls, those ramparts, those towers, that artillery, all those things spoke to me of your highness, knowing that behind them you were all aglow with the thought of combatting so great a prince as the King of France. You have gotten the victory, and now and henceforth no one will be so daring-hardy, I trow, as to fight with you. Deign to believe him, lady, as myself; and I beseech you, if you be not of all ladies the least loving, bid me to be at Milan and where you are. Messer Camillo will be able to tell how different it is to be in such sweet company as your ladyship’s and to be in Spain. I kiss your hands, and ever commend myself to you, deeply desiring to know that this _benedictus fructus_ be reaped by a husbandman worthy of it. Toledo, June 21, 1525.” After all, there was a necessary resemblance between a letter and a conversation. In Italy, the note of tenderness is always dominant, flattering and caressing even when gay. Some of Bibbiena’s letters are full of deep feeling, and yet it is impossible to mention a more jovial man: his fun bubbled over at the slightest provocation. Isabella d’Este once scolded him for no longer visiting Mantua. “How,” retorts he with affected indignation—“how have they managed to drop into those dainty little ears so many gross accusations against me?... Here I see your daughter, who appears to me the very image of that serene highness her mother. Tell me again I am a lecher, and by God it shall be true as Gospel! Would you have me swear otherwise?... Most devoutly do I kiss your hands, and to my dear lady Alda I commend myself a thousand times.” The amiable prelate was at that time assiduously courting Signorina Alda Boiarda, maid of honour to the marchioness; and, as usual, the mistress was not altogether pleased.