"And one of them, not this one who was speaking, Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him, And looked at me, and knew me, and called out, Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed On me, who all bowed down was going with them. 'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi, Agobbio's honor, and honor of that art Which is in Paris called illuminating?' 'Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leaves Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese; All his the honor now, and mine in part. In sooth I had not been so courteous While I was living, for the great desire Of excellence, on which my heart was bent. Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture: And yet I should not be here, were it not That, having power to sin, I turned to God. O thou vain glory of the human powers, How little green upon thy summit lingers, If 't be not followed by an age of grossness! In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, So that the other's fame is growing dim. So has one Guido from the other taken The glory of our tongue, and he perchance Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both. Naught is this mundane rumor but a breath Of wind, that comes now this way and now that, And changes name, because it changes side. What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead Before thou left the _pappo_ and the _dindi_, Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest. With him, who takes so little of the road In front of me, all Tuscany resounded; And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena, Where he was lord, what time was overthrown The Florentine delirium, that superb Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute. Your reputation is the color of grass Which comes and goes, and that discolors it By which it issues green from out the earth.'" _Longfellow._