"Composto è lor d'intorno il rogo omai, e già le fiamme il mantice v'incita, quand'il fanciullo in dolorosi lai proruppe, e disse a lei ch'è seco uni… - Torquato Tasso

Fame, whose sweet voice whispers of phantom bliss
to you proud mortals, and who seems so fair,
is a mere echo, dream, dream lost in shade,
at every wind-puff scattered and unmade.

E giungo ad un torrente, e riserrato
Quinci da i ladri son, quindi dal rio.

O heavenly Muse, that not with fading bays
Deckest thy brow by the Heliconian spring,
But sittest crowned with stars' immortal rays
In Heaven, where legions of bright angels sing;
Inspire life in my wit, my thoughts upraise,
My verse ennoble, and forgive the thing,
If fictions light I mix with truth divine,
And fill these lines with other praise than thine.