Rime 8

        “Se, cosí come sono abietta e vile”

If, though I am a woman vile and low,
I bear within me such a noble flame,
why can’t I be permitted to proclaim
this with so style and brio, even so?
If Love, playing a new, unheard-of game,
has thrown me higher than I’d ever go,
may he not strike another novel blow
and make my pain and pen one and the same?

He’ll have to do it through a miracle
if he cannot achieve it naturally,
by making nature metaphysical.
How? That I cannot say explicitly,
but with my fortunes at their pinnacle,
I feel new style imprinted onto me.