To Giovanni Da Pistoja. On The Painting Of The Sistine Chapel.

I' ho già fatto un gozzo.


I've grown a goitre by dwelling in this den--
        As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,
        Or in what other land they hap to be--
        Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:
My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
        Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly
        Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery
        Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.
My loins into my paunch like levers grind:
        My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;
        My feet unguided wander to and fro;
In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,
        By bending it becomes more taut and strait;
        Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:
                Whence false and quaint, I know,
        Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye;
        For ill can aim the gun that bends awry.
                Come then, Giovanni, try
        To succour my dead pictures and my fame;
        Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.