Ah Ciali, how fitting. Testament to The Lord's benevolence to resourceful and hardy libertare, for whom fortune favours the brave. Indulge me in another, wherewith the author of The Prince.
The Politics of Envy
Ah my uccellare,
Vettori.
You tell me of your typical day, its colour and its richness
and envy is a stiletto in me. But ah, I have my
uccellare
Vettori.
So, late from bed to the Vatican to snare the gossip of state
while I go over the stile of ambition
to snare the thrushes, in my uccellare.
Vettori.
Lunching with Cardinal de' Medici, Vettori, think of me under
the stigma of poverty breaking bread
with these diplomats of the turd, ugly peasants,
when I go down from the snare of the uccellare,
Vettori;
when if it is set fine Vettori and you ride out from Rome to
canter
in the sunny country on your fine mare, spare for your
country cousin
just a moment's consideration, for it is then I am entering the
inn
to play the rustic fool gambling with butchers and bakers.
Butchers and bakers! Me, Vettori: ah but I know
how you will rejoin, Vettori -
"You have your uccellare,
"your uccellare where you snare the poor little birds or
mull over old loves reading your Ovid. I see you now,
Niccolo, amid what bliss, what peace, what solitude
what serenity".
What balderdash, Vettori! All you would care for here
in this dismal life is the fall of day when we repair
to our respective libraries, both to dream of history
and statecraft. You might laugh Vettori at me 'plumping
and grooming' The Prince in my courtly study and robes.
Of this more in season, Vettori. It is written in secret
isolation which is my drab fortune. To her I plead
as follows:
Follow me, Machiavelli! "Now you would be a swan
to leave and egg in her belly, now turn into gold that
she might carry
you in her pocket." So long as you are forever Fortune's
favourite
as I was gonfalonier's,
bring me out of purgatory
and off this island of the Archipelago
before it shudders and dissolves and the polar
sea of oblivion rolls over my bones frozen in a lens of ice;
deliver me from purgatory, Vettori,
out of my uccellare
to the Medici.
To Lit - the bard expresses love for his former patrons the Medici, wretched in his fall from grace, accused and exiled for plotting against them.
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