etained him. Petrarch, knowing that Milan was a troubled city
and a stormy court, told the Prince that, being a priest, his vocation
did not permit him to live in a princely court, and in the midst of
arms. "For that matter," replied the Archbishop, "I am myself an
ecclesiastic; I wish to press no employment upon you, but only to
request you to remain as an ornament of my court." Petrarch, taken by
surprise, had not fortitude to resist his importunities. All that he
bargained for was, that he should have a habitation sufficiently distant
from the city, and that he should not be obliged to make any change in
his ordinary mode of living. The Archbishop was too happy to possess him
on these terms.

Petrarch, accordingly, took up his habitation in the western part of the
city, near the Vercellina gate, and the church of St. Ambrosio. His
house was flanked with two towers, stood behind the city wall, and
looked out upon a rich and beautiful country, as far as the Alps, the
tops of which, although it was summer, were still covered with snow.
Great was the joy of Petrarch when he found himself in a house near the
church of that Saint Ambrosio, for whom he had always cherished a
peculiar reverence. He himself tells us that he never entered that
temple without experiencing rekindled devotion. He visited the statue of
the saint, which was niched in one of the walls, and the stone figure
seemed to him to breathe, such was the majesty and tranquillity of the
sculpture. Near the church arose the chapel, where St. Augustin, after
his victory over his refractory passions, was bathed in the sacred
fountain of St. Ambrosio, and absolved from penance for his past life.

All this time, whilst Petrarch was so well pleased with his new abode,
his friends were astonished, and even grieved, at his fixing himself at
Milan. At Avignon, Socrates, Guido Settimo, and the Bishop of Cavaillon,
said among themselves, "What! this proud republican, who breathed
nothing but independence, who scorned an office in the papal court as a
gilded yoke, has gone and thrown himself into the chains of the tyrant
of Italy; this misanthrope, who delighted only in the silence of fields,
and perpetually praised a secluded life, now inhabits the most bustling
of cities!" At Florence, his friends entertained the same sentiments,
and wrote to him reproachfully on the subject. "I would wish to be
silent," says Boccaccio, "but I cannot hold my peace. My reverence for
you