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“And if it be my better fate to stay A little maid amid thy vestal throng, The fierce and burning fumes do thou allay Sprung from desires so passionate and strong Of both the enamoured youths my love who pray, And both for joy of love from me do long, Let peace supplant between them war’s contention, Since grief to me, thou know’st, is their dissension.

“And if it be reserved for me by fate To Juno’s law subjected now to be, Ah, pardon thou my lapse from maiden state, Nor therefore be my prayer refused by thee; On others’ will, thou seest, condemned to wait, My actions must conform to their decree: Then help me, Goddess, hear my prayer thus lowly, Who still deserve thy favour high and holy.”

Boccaccio thought little of his own poetry, would have destroyed his sonnets but for the remonstrances of Petrarch, and laments that even the incitement of Fiammetta is unavailing to spur him on to the Temple of Fame. Yet in another place he says that he has spared no pains to excel:

Study I have not spared, or scanted time: Now rest unto my labour I permit, Lamenting this so tittle could avail To raise me to that eminence sublime.