He writes to me With easy arrogance of my Last Judgment, In such familiar tone that one would say The great event already had occurred, And he was present, and from observation Informed me how the picture should be painted.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
What unassuming, unobtrusive men These critics are! Now, to have Aretino Aiming his shafts at you brings back to mind The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble Of envious Florentines, that at your David Threw stones at night.

But Aretino praised you.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
His praises were ironical.

He knows How to use words as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend.

But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture! FRA SEBASTIANO.
My portrait of Vittoria Colonna.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
It makes her look as she will look hereafter, When she becomes a saint! FRA SEBASTIANO.
A noble woman! MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes In marble, and can paint diviner pictures, Since I have known her.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
And you like this picture.
And yet it is in oil; which you detest.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered The use of oil in painting, he degraded His art into a handicraft, and made it Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn Or wayside wine-shop.

'T is an art for women, Or for such leisurely and idle people As you, Fra Bastiano.