these things I did in due course,
after the proper period of polishing and amending and straightening out,
until, as I think, there never was a set of rhymes more carefully
fathered and mothered into the world. And here is the sonnet:

"There is a lady living in this place
That wears the radiant name of Victory;
And we that love would bid her wingless be,
Like the Athenian image, lest her grace,
Lifting a siren's-tinted pinions, trace
Its glittering course across the Tyrrhene sea
To some more favored Cyprian sanctuary,
Leaving us lonely, longing for her face.
O daughter of the gods, though lovelier lands,
If such there be, entreat you, do not hear
Their whispering voices, heed their beckoning hands;
Have only eye for Florence, only ear
For Florentine adorers, while their cheer
Between your fingers spills its golden sands."

Now this sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the first part, I
make my statement that there is a lady dwelling in Florence whose name
is Vittoria. In the second part, I allow my fancy to play lightly with
the suggestions this name arouses in me, and I make allusion very
felicitously to the famous statue of the Wingless Victory, which the
Athenians honored in Athens so very specially in that, being wingless,
it could not fly away from the city. In the third part, I express my
alarm lest her loveliness should spread its vans in flight and leave us
lonely. In the fourth, I entreat her to pay no heed to the solicitations
of others, but to remain always loyal to her Florentine lovers so long
as they can give her gifts. The second part begins here: "And we that
love." The third begins, "Lest her grace." The fourth part begins, "O
daughter of the gods."

That simile of the Wingless Victory tickled me so mightily that I was in
a very good conceit with myself, and if I read over my precious sonnet
once, I suppose I read it over a score of times; and even now, at this
distance of days, I am inclined to pat myself upon the back and to call
myself ear-pleasing names for the sake of my handiwork. Of course I am
ready to admit quite frankly that most, if not all, of Dante's sonnets
are better, taking them all round, than my modest enterprises. But there
is room, as I hope, for many kinds of music-makers in the fields about
Parnassus. I know Messer Guido spoke very pleasantly of my sonnets, and
so I make no doubt would Dante have, but