I’ve grown a goitre by dwelling in this den—­
    As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,
    Or in what other land they hap to be—­
    Which drives the belly close beneath the chin: 
My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
    Fixed on my spine:  my breast-bone visibly
    Grows like a harp:  a rich embroidery
    Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin. 
My loins into my paunch like levers grind: 
    My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;
    My feet unguided wander to and fro;
In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,
    By bending it becomes more taut and strait;
    Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow: 
        Whence false and quaint, I know,
    Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye;
    For ill can aim the gun that bends awry. 
        Come then, Giovanni, try
    To succour my dead pictures and my fame;
    Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.

VI.

INVECTIVE AGAINST THE PEOPLE OF PISTOJA.

I’ l’ ho, vostra merce.

I’ve gotten it, thanks to your courtesy;
    And I have read it twenty times or so: 
    Thus much may your sharp snarling profit you,
    As food our flesh filled to satiety. 
After I left you, I could plainly see
    How Cain was of your ancestors:  I know
    You do not shame his lineage, for lo,
    Your brother’s good still seems your injury. 
Envious you are, and proud, and foes to heaven;
    Love of your neighbour still you loathe and hate,
    And only seek what must your ruin be. 
If to Pistoja Dante’s curse was given,
    Bear that in mind!  Enough!  But if you prate
    Praises of Florence, ’tis to wheedle me. 
                          A priceless jewel she: 
Doubtless:  but this you cannot understand: 
For pigmy virtue grasps not aught so grand.

VII.

TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO.

Nel dolce d’ una.

It happens that the sweet unfathomed sea
    Of seeming courtesy sometimes doth hide
    Offence to life and honour.  This descried,
    I hold less dear the health restored to me. 
He who lends wings of hope, while secretly
    He spreads a traitorous snare by the wayside,
    Hath dulled the flame of love, and mortified
    Friendship where friendship burns most fervently. 
Keep then, my dear Luigi, clear and pure
    That ancient love to which my life I owe,
    That neither wind nor storm its calm may mar. 
For wrath and pain our gratitude obscure;
    And if the truest truth of love I know,
    One pang outweighs a thousand pleasures far.

VIII.

TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO,

AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI.