Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?
He just now yonder in the copse has 'gone it' (n'andò)
Because across his mind there came a fancy;
He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!
Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?
He just now yonder in the copse has 'gone it' (n'andò)
Because across his mind there came a fancy;
He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!
Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?
He just now yonder in the copse has 'gone it' (n'andò)
Because across his mind there came a fancy;
He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!
Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?
He just now yonder in the copse has 'gone it' (n'andò)
Because across his mind there came a fancy;
He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!
Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?
He just now yonder in the copse has 'gone it' (n'andò)
Because across his mind there came a fancy;
He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!
Now Ba thinks nothing can be worse than that? Then read this which I really told Hunt and got his praise for. Poor dear wonderful persecuted Pietro d'Abano wrote this quatrain on the people's plaguing him about his mathematical studies and wanting to burn him—he helped to build Padua Cathedral, wrote a Treatise on Magic still extant, and passes for a conjuror in his country to this day—when there is a storm the mothers tell the children that he is in the air; his pact with the evil one obliged him to drink no milk; no natural human food! You know Tieck's novel about him? Well, this quatrain is said, I believe truly, to have been discovered in a well near Padua some fifty years ago.
Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso
Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra—
Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,
E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.
Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso
Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra—
Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,
E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.
Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso
Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra—
Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,
E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.
Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso
Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra—
Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,
E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.