Its own creation, radiant and free,
For others, as for me?
And yet is she with fading life endued.
My Fortune then in her best foot is lame,
If Death the substance, Life the semblance claim.
On whom devolves the feud?
On Nature’s self, if of her sons alone
The work survive, and Time despoil her own.
X
Non pur d’argento o d’oro,