Nature paints not In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds And flying vapors.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
And how soon they fade! Behold yon line of roofs and belfries painted Upon the golden background of the sky, Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait Of Cimabue.

See how hard the outline, Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow.
Yet that is nature.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
She is always right.
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest Is the best picture.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Leonardo thinks The open air too bright.

We ought to paint As if the sun were shining through a mist.
'T is easier done in oil than in distemper.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Do not revive again the old dispute; I have an excellent memory for forgetting, But I still feel the hurt.

Wounds are not healed By the unbending of the bow that made them.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
But that is past.

Now I am angry with you, Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat And indolent, you do not paint at all.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Why should I paint?
Why should I toil and sweat, Who now am rich enough to live at ease, And take my pleasure?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
When Pope Leo died, He who had been so lavish of the wealth His predecessors left him, who received A basket of gold-pieces every morning, Which every night was empty, left behind Hardly enough to pay his funeral.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
I care for banquets, not for funerals, As did his Holiness.