sibil tue staranno.
Po che del secol questa eta sia priva.
Laude al pictor, ma piu laude in che scriva
Quello a futuri che i presenti sanno,
Origin e stato e che al triseptimo anno
Morte spense ogni ben che in te fioriva.
Ma come excedo tua forma il pennello
Excedera le tue virtu le penne
E restera imperfetto, e questo e quello."

The poet's complaint that the painter's art can never reproduce one-half
of the dead lady's charms is literally true in this instance, and those
of Beatrice's portraits which we possess do but scant justice to the
brightness and beauty which fascinated young and old among her
contemporaries. Two of the letters addressed to Lodovico on this
melancholy occasion are especially worthy of mention. One was a Latin
epistle from the Emperor Maximilian, in which the writer expresses his
cordial regard for the duke and his frank admiration for the lamented
duchess whose delightful company he had so lately enjoyed.

The letter bears the date of January 11, 1497, and was written from
Innsbruck.

"MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE AND DEAREST OF KINSMEN AND FRIENDS,

"Having just heard of the sad calamity which has befallen you in the
death of your illustrious wife, Beatrice, our most dear kinswoman, we
are filled with grief both on account of our great affection for you and
of all the gifts of person and mind which adorned that renowned
princess, and which now only adds to the heaviness of our mutual loss.
Nothing could grieve us more at this present moment than to find
ourselves thus suddenly deprived of a relative who was dear to us above
all other princesses, and whose surpassing charms and virtues we had
lately learnt to value as they deserved. But we are still more
distressed to think that you whom we love so well should lose in her,
not only a sweet wife, but a companion who in so remarkable a degree
shared the burdens of your crown and lightened your cares and cheered
your labours by her society. As for her, although she was one of the few
women worthy of perpetual regret and eternal remembrance, this premature
death is no true cause of sorrow, and we take comfort in the thought
that, since we must all die, they are most blessed who die young and
who, having lived happily in their youth, escape the innumerable
calamities of this miserable world and the evils of a weary old age.
Your most fortunate wife enjoyed all that makes life good; no gift of
body and mind, no advantage of beauty