The Lover And The Sculptor.

Non ha l' ottimo artista. The best of artists hath no thought to show Which the rough stone in its superfluous shell Doth not include: to break the marble spell Is all the hand that serves the brain can do. The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable, Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low. Therefore not love, nor thy transcendent face, Nor cruelty, nor fortune, nor disdain, Cause my mischance, nor fate, nor destiny; Since in thy heart thou carriest death and grace Enclosed together, and my worthless brain Can draw forth only death to feed on me.