20. ‘Vergognando talor ch’ancor si taccia,’

Ashamed sometimes that your beauty,

lady, is still silent in my verses,

I recall that time when I first saw it,

such that nothing else could ever please me.

But I find the weight too great for my shoulder,

a work not to be polished by my skill:

the more my wit exercises its force

the more its whole action grows cold.

Many times my lips have opened to speak,

but my voice is stilled in my chest:

who is he who could climb so high?

Many times I’ve begun to scribble verses:

but the pen, the hand, and the intellect

fell back defeated at their first attempt.