Several of the lectures, or declamations, pronounced by her before the learned world of Ferrara, have been preserved. Here is a specimen of the introductory portion of one of them.[57] "I well know the rarely equalled benevolence of my audience; yet the timidity natural to my age, joined to the feebleness of my talents, fills me with reasonable alarm. I tremble, and remain voiceless, like the rhetorician who steps up to the altar at Lyons[58]— "'Ceu Lugdunensem rhetor dicturus ad aram.' "However, you command, and I will obey; for no sacrifice is more agreeable to God than that of a willing obedience. I submit myself, therefore, to this trial for the third time, like an artist unskilled in his art, who can make nothing of a coarse–grained marble. But if you offer a block of Parian to his chisel, he will no longer deem his work valueless. The beauty of the material will give value to his production. Perhaps it will be so with mine. There are strains so rich in melody and harmony, that even when reproduced by the most miserable instrument, they yet retain all their charm. Such are the words of my favourite author. Listen to them. They will lose nothing of their grace and majesty even in passing from my lips." [Sidenote: PUBLIC DECLAMATION.] Those who were present at those performances thought that the words gained much, on the contrary, in passing from those lips. Nothing seems to have excited the admiration and approbation of her contemporaries more than these public declamations. "One might have fancied that one was listening to one of the learned virgins of Greece or Rome, to whom, indeed, she may be justly compared!"[59] cries one enthusiastic hearer. "The young girls of thy age," writes another, "pluck spring flowers from the meadows to weave them into many–coloured chaplets. But thou gatherest no flowerets doomed ere long to fade and die, but selectest the immortal amaranths from the abounding gardens of the Muses, whose altogether divine privilege it is never more to wither, but gain beauty from time, and flourish ever more greenly as it passes."[60] Poor old Giraldi sends her Latin verses from his gout–tormented bed. "Thou'rt all fair and brightly glowest, As in years and lore thou growest, In the Virtue's court, young maid, Which Renée's fair virgins tread, And the sister Muses nine. Happy he, whom speech of thine Warms and gladdens! happier yet Parents that did thee beget, And named Olympia! happiest he— Should fate to man such bliss decree— Whose bride thou shalt consent to be. And e'en I, though old 'tis true, Have my share of pleasure too, While to soothe my gouty pains Such a damsel's smile remains."[61]