Ah my uccellare,
Vettori.
You tell me of your typical day, its colour and its richness
and envy is a stiletto in me. But ah, I have my
uccellare
Vettori.
So, late from bed to the Vatican to snare the gossip of state
while I go over the stile of ambition
to snare the thrushes, in my uccellare.
Vettori.
Lunching with Cardinal de' Medici, Vettori, think of me under
the stigma of poverty breaking bread
with these diplomats of the turd, ugly peasants,
when I go down from the snare of the uccellare,
Vettori;
when if it is set fine Vettori and you ride out from Rome to
What balderdash, Vettori! All you would care for here
in this dismal life is the fall of day when we repair
to our respective libraries, both to dream of history
and statecraft. You might laugh Vettori at me 'plumping
and grooming' The Prince in my courtly study and robes.
Of this more in season, Vettori. It is written in secret
isolation which is my drab fortune. To her I plead
as follows:
deliver me from purgatory, Vettori,
out of my uccellare
to the Medici.
* * * * * * * *
In 1513 Machiavelli was confined
for one year to the environs of
Florence, having been suspected
of conspiring against the
Medici. Whilst trying to secure
favour in Rome by letter, he
divided his time between his farm
and preparing The Prince in his
study in the evenings. His
preferred spot on the farm was
his uccellare, a wood on a hill
where nets were spread to snare
birds.