tter from
the title-page, or of transplanting the willow at the end, that hangs
so prettily over the tomb of Amaryllis. If they wish to be healthy and
vigorous, let them open their bosoms to the breezes of Sunium; for the
air of Latium is heavy and overcharged. Above all, they must remember
two admonitions; first, that sweet things hurt digestion; secondly,
that great sails are ill adapted to small vessels. What is there
lovely in poetry unless there be moderation and composure? Are they
not better than the hot, uncontrollable harlotry of a flaunting,
dishevelled enthusiasm? Whoever has the power of creating, has
likewise the inferior power of keeping his creation in order. The best
poets are the most impressive, because their steps are regular; for
without regularity there is neither strength nor state. Look at
Sophocles, look at Aeschylus, look at Homer.

_Petrarca._ I agree with you entirely to the whole extent of your
observations; and, if you will continue, I am ready to lay aside my
Dante for the present.

_Boccaccio._ No, no; we must have him again between us: there is no
danger that he will sour our tempers.

_Petrarca._ In comparing his and yours, since you forbid me to declare
all I think of your genius, you will at least allow me to congratulate
you as being the happier of the two.

_Boccaccio._ Frequently, where there is great power in poetry, the
imagination makes encroachments on the heart, and uses it as her own.
I have shed tears on writings which never cost the writer a sigh, but
which occasioned him to rub the palms of his hands together, until
they were ready to strike fire, with satisfaction at having overcome
the difficulty of being tender.

_Petrarca._ Giovanni! are you not grown satirical?

_Boccaccio._ Not in this. It is a truth as broad and glaring as the
eye of the Cyclops. To make you amends for your shuddering, I will
express my doubt, on the other hand, whether Dante felt all the
indignation he threw into his poetry. We are immoderately fond of
warming ourselves; and we do not think, or care, what the fire is
composed of. Be sure it is not always of cedar, like Circe's. Our
Alighieri had slipped into the habit of vituperation; and he thought
it fitted him; so he never left it off.

_Petrarca._ Serener colours are pleasanter to our eyes and more
becoming to our character. The chief desire in every man of genius is
to be thought one; and no fear or apprehension lessens it. Alighieri,