tard the
effects of his good-will towards you." "Let his Holiness satiate them,"
replied Petrarch; "let him appease their thirst, which is more than the
Tagus, the Pactolus, and the ocean itself could do--I agree to it; and
let him not think of me. I am neither famished nor thirsty. I shall
content myself with their leavings, and with what the holy father may
think meet to give, if he deigns to think of me."

Bruni was right. The Pope, beset by applications on all hands, had no
time to think of Petrarch. Bruni for a year discontinued his
correspondence. His silence vexed our poet. He wrote to Francesco,
saying, "You do not write to me, because you cannot communicate what you
would wish. You understand me ill, and you do me injustice. I desire
nothing, and I hope for nothing, but an easy death. Nothing is more
ridiculous than an old man's avarice; though nothing is more common. It
is like a voyager wishing to heap up provisions for his voyage when he
sees himself approaching the end of it. The holy father has written me a
most obliging letter: is not that sufficient for me? I have not a doubt
of his good-will towards me, but he is encompassed by people who thwart
his intentions. Would that those persons could know how much I despise
them, and how much I prefer my mediocrity to the vain grandeur which
renders them so proud!" After a tirade against his enemies in purple,
evidently some of the Cardinals, he reproaches Bruni for having dwelt so
long for lucre in the ill-smelling Avignon; he exhorts him to leave it,
and to come and end his days at Florence. He says that he does not write
to the Pope for fear of appearing to remind him of his promises. "I have
received," he adds, "his letter and Apostolic blessing; I beg you to
communicate to his Holiness, in the clearest manner, that I wish for no
more."

From this period Petrarch's health was never re-established. He was
languishing with wishes to repair to Perugia, and to see his dear friend
the Cardinal Cabassole. At the commencement of spring he mounted a
horse, in order to see if he could support the journey; but his weakness
was such that he could only ride a few steps. He wrote to the Cardinal
expressing his regrets, but seems to console himself by recalling to his
old friend the days they had spent together at Vaucluse, and their long
walks, in which they often strayed so far, that the servant who came to
seek for them and to announce that dinner was ready could not