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O Death, why is it I cannot portray
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
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.