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Since you returned home, the blessed haven you came from, finest of spirits, we are left to the daily misery of life, its melancholy and without that joy you must now lend each star you encounter; I do not cry that you are happy but ache for this pitiless desolate earth-- --while you lived unparalleled splendor graced our world at play, and without you, and your exquisite poetry how poor, shrunk, and gray we are. Scorn and grief nearly drown Rome as Tiber overflows her shores for a second Caesar--your body washed thus, at peace, Sincero, you are become divine. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V LXXXV:85 & Bullock E15:210; MSs L, VI, Ve2: 1538/9, 1539, 1540-2/44-6; 1552/9-60; 1760 Rota. Translations: Roscoe 60 (as to VC's deceased father); Lefèvre-Deumier 84. On the death of Jacopo Sannazaro (August 6, 1530). Key |
