The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini — Part 194

I’ll tell thee a great marvel! Friend, give ear! ' ' The fancy took me on one day to write: Learn now what shifts one may be put to here.

My cell I search, prick brows and hair upright, Then turn me toward a cranny in the door, ' ' And with my teeth a splinter disunite;

Next find a piece of brick upon the floor, Crumble a part thereof to powder small, And form a paste by sprinkling water o’er. [2] '

'Then, then came Poesy with fiery call Into my carcass, by the way methought Whence bread goes forth-there was none else at all. ' 'Now to return unto my primal thought: Who wills to know what weal awaits him, must First learn the ill that God for him hath wrought.

The jail contains all arts in act and trust; ' ' Should you but hanker after surgeon’s skill, ’Twill draw the spoiled blood from your veins adust.

Next there is something in itself that will Make you right eloquent, a bold brave spark, ' ' Big with high-soaring thoughts for good and ill.

Blessed is the man who lies in dungeon dark, Languishing many a month, then takes his flight Of war, truce, peace he knows, and tells the mark. '

'Needs be that all things turn to his delight; The jail has crammed his brains so full of wit, They’ll dance no morris to upset the wight.

Perchance thou’lt urge: “Think how thy life did flit; Nor is it true the jail can teach thee lore, To fill thy breast and heart with strength of it!”

Nay, for myself I’ll ever praise it more: Yet would I like one law passed-that the man Whose acts deserve it should not scape this score.

Whoso hath gotten the poor folk in ban, I’d make him learn those lessons of the jail; For then he’d know all a good ruler can:

He’d act like men who weigh by reason’s scale, Nor dare to swerve from truth and right aside, Nor would confusion in the realm prevail.

While I was bound in prison to abide, Foison of priests, friars, soldiers I could see; But those who best deserved it least I spied.

Ah! could you know what rage came over me, When for such rogues the jail relaxed her hold! This makes one weep that one was born to be!

I’ll add no more. Now I’m become fine gold, Such gold as none flings lightly to the wind, Fit for the best work eyes shall e’er behold.

Another point hath passed into my mind, Which I’ve not told thee, Luca; where I wrote, Was in the book of one our kith and kind. [3]