"O mischinella Italia! in te, acecata e disunita Hor per dollor, te batte ogni mascella." Ah, poor and wretched Italy! all blind And disunited, chattering thy jaws In torments sad. "O instabil fortuna! che fai secco Ogni arbor verde, quando te impiacere, In un momento." Ah fickle fortune! which the greenest tree Mayst in a moment wither at thy will. The following sentiments were likely to find little sympathy among his contemporaries:-- "Il sfrenato desio che nel cor tiene Di nuova signoria e altrui dominio L'huom mai si satia; e pur morir conviene." Man ne'er his soul's unbridled lust can slake Of further sovereignty, and wider sway; Yet 'tis appointed him to die. "Che el facto d'arme se devea fare Sol per due cose, e l'altre lassar gire: L'uno è per lo avantagio singolare E grande oltra misura; e in caso extremo Si deve l'huomo a la fortuna dare." Twain are the pleas that justly may be urged For armed aggression,--aggrandisement great Beyond all calculation, or extreme Necessity: nought else can justify Such hazard of men's fortunes. A long and somewhat tedious chapter of moralities on the uncertain tenure of life among princes, introduced after describing the assassination of Galeazzo Maria Duke of Milan, in 1476, opens finely:-- "Vedendo il breve e vil peregrinare Che noi facciam per questo falso mondo, Anzi un pugno di terra al ver narrare, Dove, con tanto afanno e tanto pondo, De dì e nocte, e inextimabil cure, Cerchiam sallire in alto e andamo al fondo. Qual e quel si potente che asicure Ogi la vita sua per l'altro giorno, Tante son spesse et orende le sciagure?" Seeing how brief the pilgrimage and vile, Whereby through this false world we wend our way, A little earth our only heritage, Where day and night, with pain and load of care Incalculable, still we seek to soar, Yet ever downward sink: where is the man Potent to day, to-morrow's life to count, So frequent its mishaps and horrible? The bland transition from a rigorous winter to balmy Italian spring is thus apostrophised:-- "Intanto el verno El mondo gia copria col fredo smalto; E raro volte fu che el tempo iberno Tanto terribile fusse, onde asvernarsi Tucti ne andar, per fin che del inferno Proserpina torno, per adornarsi De vaghi fiori e de novelle fronde, Cum lauree chiome al vento dolce sparsi." Winter meanwhile the far-spread world had clad In cold enamel; rarely was it known More rigid: gladly all the troops retired To quarters, waiting Proserpine's return On earth, with beauteous flowers bedecked, and leaves Of freshest green, when in the gentle breeze Should stream her laurel tresses.