A Poem by Hieronymus Amaseus of Udine, born in Bologna,

Poet and Philosopher, to Accursius Mainerius,

the most distinguished Jurisconsult of Avignon, and

the most eloquent Orator of the most Christian King Louis of France

to the Venetians.

My heart is so shaken by conflicting anxieties, and such diverse images fly through my brain, that my mind, agitated by so many visions and shapes of things, can scarcely maintain its composure. For now a thought arises, and it pleases me to seek eternal fame through song. How often, alas, do I seem to hear men of lower rank speak great things of me and applaud our muse. Then my spirits rise, then wreaths of laurel crown my head, then I kiss you, O Laurel, that spurns the thunderbolts, and I worship the honors of your leaves; O Laurel, delight and sweetest care of Phoebus, and the only hope of the nine sisters, the highest glory of warfare—for only the triumphant Romans were able to possess you, O Laurel. You make poets, O Laurel, the equals of Caesars. O madness, I flatter myself thus, promising myself everything, so great is the sweetness with which I am affected by my songs, and so much do my writings please me. Especially when Phoebus and Euan insinuate themselves into me, and inflame me with a double frenzy, I seem to strip off my mortal limbs and, I think, to be a man, and not to sound with a voice