Page:The Life of Michael Angelo.djvu/233



, so long desired and so slow in coming—

came at last.

Notwithstanding a robust constitution, sustained by the monkish rigour of his life, he had not been spared from illness. He had never entirely recovered from his two bad attacks of fever of 1544 and 1546. Stone, gout, and sufferings of all kinds completed his ruin. In a sadly burlesque poem of his last years he draws a picture of his wretched body, undermined by infirmities.

“I live alone and wretched, confined like the pith within the bark of a tree. … My voice is like a wasp imprisoned within a sack of skin and bone. … My teeth rattle like the keys of a musical instrument. …