Nay, I am free. To copy lesser minds. Petrarca or Boccaccio, perchance, For one of my estate were small indeed. The world -- what of it? Give me but a quill And half a ream of foolscap to my hand And I shall mock me of the universe. For one of my estate were small indeed. Save women infinite and the defects Of Venice's half palsied regiment, Are swift to wreck their purses to buy up The matter of some idle pasquinade Or what contempt I void upon their state. The Scourge of Princess -- aye, they call me that; No sweeter garland ever crowned the brow That bore the superscription and relief Of utter genius. It is said that none In Italy draws breath or sword but fears The insolence of my authority. Sweet mead were that! What would a pen be worth That might not rate the guerdon of its skill In minted ducats of an empire's price? I shall persevere still while prelates pay And merchant princes open out their vaults To stifle slander and correct abuse. If any patron crave the sure defense Of trenchant missive and impassioned verse. In short, if he desire me to his train, I am his man if he be generous, For say what please you, the humanities By valor earn a princely recompense. This is the very fashion of my strength And I defy you, masters, find the peer Of Pietro Aretino if you may, And I will brand him false as hell itself. Before he challenge my supremacy. |