O Death, why is it I cannot portray
Thy form and features? Do I stand too

near thee? Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me

back, As being thy disciple, not thy master? Let him who knows not what old age is

like Have patience till it comes, and he will

know. I once had skill to fashion Life and Death And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of

Death;
And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi
Wrote underneath my statue of the Night
In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago!

Probably Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, That I could slip through bolted door or

window? As I was passing down the street, I saw A glimmer of light, and heard the well

known chink Of chisel upon marble. So I entered, To see what keeps you from your bed so late.

MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp. You have been revelling with your boon com

panions, Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me At an untimely hour.

GIORGIO.