Part 2 (1/2)

My Lord! if ever ancient saw spake sooth, Hear this which saith: Who can, doth never will.

Lo! thou hast lent thine ear to fables still, Rewarding those who hate the name of truth.

I am thy drudge and have been from my youth-- Thine, like the rays which the sun's circle fill; Yet of my dear time's waste thou think'st no ill: The more I toil, the less I move thy ruth.

Once 'twas my hope to raise me by thy height; But 'tis the balance and the powerful sword Of Justice, not false Echo, that we need.

Heaven, as it seems, plants virtue in despite Here on the earth, if this be our reward-- To seek for fruit on trees too dry to breed.

IV.

_ON ROME IN THE PONTIFICATE OF JULIUS II._

_Qua si fa elmi._

Here helms and swords are made of chalices: The blood of Christ is sold so much the quart: His cross and thorns are spears and s.h.i.+elds; and short Must be the time ere even his patience cease.

Nay let him come no more to raise the fees Of this foul sacrilege beyond report!

For Rome still flays and sells him at the court, Where paths are closed to virtue's fair increase.

Now were fit time for me to sc.r.a.pe a treasure!

Seeing that work and gain are gone; while he Who wears the robe, is my Medusa still.

G.o.d welcomes poverty perchance with pleasure: But of that better life what hope have we, When the blessed banner leads to nought but ill?

V.

TO GIOVANNI DA PISTOJA.

_ON THE PAINTING OF THE SISTINE CHAPEL._

_I' ho gia fatto un gozzo._

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 b.u.t.tock 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.