Thursday, May 03, 2012

Happy Birthday Niccolò Machiavelli !

Niccolò Machiavelli
Today is the birthday of an Italian historian, philosopher, humanist and writer Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli. Niccolò Machiavelli (3 May 1469 – 21 June 1527) was a diplomat, political philosopher, playwright and a civil servant of the Florentine Republic. He also wrote comedies, carnival songs, and poetry. His personal correspondence is renowned in the Italian language. He was Secretary to the Second Chancery of the Republic of Florence from 1498 to 1512, when the Medici were out of power. He wrote his masterpiece, The Prince, after the Medici had recovered power and he no longer held a position of responsibility in Florence. Presenting some Poems : Being Poet
Capitolo L’Occasïone
“WHO are you? Mortal woman is less sweet; 
The Heavens have richly decked and dowered you! Why 
So restless? Why these wings upon your feet?”       
“Few know me, Opportunity am I.
The reason that I never can be still 
Is because on a wheel my foot does lie;       
Unto my course no flight but matches ill, 
Because, all are so dazzled as I run, 
Wings on my feet I have maintained; I spill     
My tresses forward that they flow as spun 
Veil covering over face and bosom, so 
In passing I be recognized by none;       
Behind my head no single hair does grow, 
So that he gazes vainly when maybe 
I hasten by or look back as I go.”       
“Tell me, who is it that does accompany you?”
“She is called Penitence: O take good care, 
He does keep her who cannot capture me!       
And you who chattering does waste time so rare, 
Immersed in matters vain and manifold, 
Alas, have you not seen, nor are aware       
That I meanwhile have slipped out of your hold!”
Lorna De’ Lucchi’s Original Version
“WHO art thou? Mortal woman were less sweet;  
The Heavens have richly decked and dowered thee! Why 
So restless? Whence these wings upon thy feet?”       
“Few know me, Opportunity am I. 
The reason that I never can be still 
Is because on a wheel my foot doth lie;       
Unto my course no flight but matcheth ill, 
Nathless, so all be dazzled as I run, 
Wings on my feet I have maintained; I spill       
My tresses forwards that they flow as spun 
Veil covering over face and bosom, so 
In passing I be recognized by none;       
Behind my head no single hair doth grow, 
Wherefore he gazeth vainly when maybe 
I hasten by or look back as I go.”       
“Tell me, who is it that accompanieth thee?”
“She is called Penitence: O take good care, 
He keepeth her who cannot capture me!       
And thou who chattering wastest time so rare, 
Immersed in matters vain and manifold, 
Alas, hast thou not seen, nor art aware       
That I meanwhile have slipped out of thy hold!”