It was supposed that the Cardinal Colonna incited him to write it. A
struggle that was now impending between France and England engaged all
Europe on one side or other. The Emperor Lewis had intimated to Humbert
that he must follow him in this war, he, the Dauphin, being
arch-seneschal of Arles and Vienne. Next year, the arch-seneschal
received an invitation from Philip of Valois to join him with his troops
at Amiens as vassal of France. The Dauphin tried to back out of the
dilemma between his two suitors by frivolous excuses to both, all the
time determining to assist neither. In 1338 he came to Avignon, and the
Pope gave him his palace at the bridge of the Sorgue for his habitation.
Here the poor craven, beset on one side by threatening letters from
Philip of Valois, and on the other by importunities from the French
party at the papal court, remained in Avignon till July, 1339, after
Petrarch had let loose upon him his epistolary eloquence.

This letter, dated April, 1339, is, according to De Sade's opinion, full
of powerful persuasion. I cannot say that it strikes me as such. After
calling Christ to witness that he writes to the Dauphin in the spirit of
friendship, he reminds him that Europe had never exhibited so mighty and
interesting a war as that which had now sprung up between the kings of
France and England, nor one that opened so vast a field of glory for the
brave. "All the princes and their people," he says, "are anxious about
its issue, especially those between the Alps and the ocean, who take
arms at the crash of the neighbouring tumult; whilst you alone go to
sleep amidst the clouds of the coming storm. To say the truth, if there
was nothing more than shame to awaken you, it ought to rouse you from
this lethargy. I had thought you," he continues, "a man desirous of
glory. You are young and in the strength of life. What, then, in the
name of God, keeps you inactive? Do you fear fatigue? Remember what
Sallust says--'Idle enjoyments were made for women, fatigue was made for
men.' Do you fear death? Death is the last debt we owe to nature, and
man ought not to fear it; certainly he ought not to fear it more than
sleep and sluggishness. Aristotle, it is true, calls death the last of
horrible things; but, mind, he does not call it the most horrible of
things." In this manner, our poet goes on moralizing on the blessings of
an early death, and the great advantage that it would have afforded to
some excellent Ro