Lorenzo de’ Medici (1449–1492)

Translated by William Roscoe
Cerchi, chi vuol, le pompe

SEEK he who will in grandeur to be blest,

Place in proud halls and splendid courts, his joy;

For pleasure, or for gold, his arts employ,

Whilst all his hours unnumbered cares molest.

—A little field in native flowerets drest,

A rivulet in soft murmurs gliding by,

A bird whose love-sick note salutes the sky,

With sweeter magic lull my cares to rest.

And shadowy woods, and rocks, and towering hills,

And caves obscure, and nature’s free-born train,

And some lone nymph that timorous speeds along,

Each in my mind some gentle thought instils

Of those bright eyes that absence shrouds in vain;

—Ah, gentle thoughts! soon lost the city cares among.