ABSTRACT
The arrow moved from my bow touches the mark it sought with flying ardor; and the white doves, having eaten in the ample fields, seek their towers with jubilation; and the tired horses, having completed their course, ask for repose; and so my work, guided through the humble plains, out of fear of the miserable misfortunes of Icarus, has come to its end. May the holy goddess who aided me in these endeavors receive her incense; and may well-deserved garlands crown the beautiful lady who is the moving cause of my tired pen. And you, my only friend, and the truest example of real friendship, Niccolo di Bartolo del Buono di Firenze, 1 whose virtues my verses could not be sufficient to describe (and therefore I shall be silent, since they so shine by themselves that they have no need of my labors), take this rose, which was born among the thorns of my adversities, which the Florentine beauty, presenting itself to me to design with brief delight, wrenched from the rigid thistles while I dwelled in deepest gloom. And receive this the way that the good Augustus took the highly esteemed verses from Virgil, or Herennius took the like from Cicero, or from Horace, Maecenas took his, recalling to your memory the authority of Cato, who said: “When a poor friend presents you with a small gift, receive it agreeably.” 2 Indeed I send this to you, who have such valor, avowing no other person to be myx Caesar, or my Herennius or my Maecenas, except Niccolo. And if inside the leaves or in some other part, sane defect may be contained, not malice, but ignorance is at fault.
