My little book, that's neat and new,
Fresh polished with dry pumice stone,
To whom, Cornelius, but to you,
Shall this be sent, for you alone —
(Who used to praise my lines, my own) —
Have dared, in weighty volumes three,
(What labours, Jove, what learning thine!)
To tell the Tale of Italy,
And all the legend of our line.

So take, whate'er its worth may be,
My Book, — but Lady and Queen of Song,
This one kind gift I crave of thee,
That it may live for ages long!