Classic Poem

My Lord, in every trivial work, 'tis known,
Translators must be masters of their own
And of their author's language, but your task
A greater latitude of skill did ask;
For your Malvezzi first required a man
To teach him speak vulgar Italian;
His matter's so sublime, so now his phrase
So far above the style of Bembo's days,
Old Varchi's rules, or what the Crusca yet
For current Tuscan mintage will admit,
As I believe, your Marquess, by a good
Part of his natives, hardly understood.
You must expect no happier fate; 'tis true,
He is of noble birth, of nobler you:
So nor your thoughts nor words fit common ears;
He writes, and you translate, both to your peers.