To Vasari he sent a sonnet denouncing the artistic passion which abandons itself completely to art:
Now know I well that that fond phantasy
Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall
Of earthly art is vain.
(Transl. by J.A. Symonds.)
Faith, is to him "the mercy of mercies," for he has never possessed its deepest conviction.
But the passion which burned in him remained unquelled to the last: his soul is torn between love and the thought of death.
Flames of love
And chill of death are battling in my heart.
He longed to break away from love and find peace, and he called on death for delivery, but in vain: