Is it any wonder that there came over the people who sang this song a haste, an urgency to heap all of life’s enjoyment onto the present day, onto the only rock worth building on? And this same tendency explains the crowd of figures we see in the pictures of the Florentine painters, who work hard to bring all their princes and ladies and friends together in a single painting. For painting a picture took a long time, and who knew if, by the time the occasion for the next painting came around, everyone would still be so young and colorful and united? Understandably, this spirit of impatience spoke most directly to the young people.

The most glittering of these were sitting together after a dinner party on the terrace of the Palazzo Strozzi and chatting about the entertainments that were to take place shortly in front of church of the Santa Croce. In a gallery somewhat apart from the others stood Palla degli Albizzi with his friend Tomaso, the painter. They appeared to be thrashing out something between them with growing excitement. Suddenly Tomaso cried out, “You will never do it, I’ll bet on it! You’ll never do it!” Now the attention of the others was on them.

“What are you two going on about?” Geatano Strozzi asked as he approached with a few of his friends.

Tomaso explained. “Palla is going to kneel down at the festival in front of that arrogant Beatrice Altichieri and request permission to kiss the dusty hem of her dress.”

Everybody laughed, and Leonardo of the house of Ricardi remarked, “Palla will change his mind. He is well aware that the most beautiful women reserve a smile for him that they have for no one else.” And someone else said, “And Beatrice is still so young. Her lips are still too hard and childlike to smile. That’s why she seems so proud.”

“No,” replied Palla degli Albizzi with disproportionate forcefulness, “she is proud, but her youth is not the cause. She is proud like stone in the hands of Michelangelo, proud like a flower in the painting of a Madonna, proud like a sunbeam cast on diamonds.”

“And you, Palla,” interrupted Gaetano Strozzi, “are you not also proud? The way you are talking, it sounds to me like you want to join the beggars who wait at vespers time in the courtyard of the Santissima Annunziata for Beatrice Altichieri, with her face turned away, to give them a soldo.”

“I’ll do that too,” cried Palla with fire in his eyes. Then he pushed his way through his friends to the stairway and disappeared. Tomaso wanted to follow him, but Strozzi held him back.

“Let him go. He’ll need to be by himself now, and that will be the best chance for him to regain his good sense.” Then the young folk scattered through the gardens.