To whom inscribe my charming new book—just out and with ashen pumice polished? Cornelius, to you! for you used to deem my triflings of account, and at a time when you alone of Italians dared unfold the ages' abstract in three chronicles—learned, by Jupiter!—and most laboriously written. Therefore take this booklet, such as it is, and, O Virgin Patroness, may it outlive generations more than one.

Sparrow, darling of my girl, with which she plays, which she presses to her bosom, to whom she gives her fingertip, arousing sharp bites as he seeks after it, when gleaming with desire of me she jests a light joke of it, so that, I think, it is a solace for her pain when the heavy burning is at rest. Could I but play with you just as she does and lighten the sad cares of mind.This was as pleasing to me as the golden apple was to the fleet footed girl, which unloosed her girdle long-time fastened.