To whom do I send this fresh little book 
of wit, just polished off with dry pumice? 
To you, Cornelius: since you were accustomed 
to consider my trifles worth something 
even then, when you alone of Italians 
dared to explain all the ages, in three learned 
works, by Jupiter, and with the greatest labour. 
Then take this little book for your own: whatever 
it is, and is worth: virgin Muse, patroness, 
let it last, for more lives than one.