A forfeit life: If spoken words, like wind
Have passed away! My fame seared, in its green;
I leave, at least, one testament behind,
Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween
(However callous, and unjustly blind),
It dies, along with the old Ghibelline!
No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live;
Her thoughts, and very language be of mine!
Yes, what my City was too false to give,
A world will yet award me! So, I end: