I' Ho Gi' Fatto Un Gozzo. I've Grown A Goitre By Dwelling In This Den-- As Cats From Stagnant Streams In Lombardy, Or In What Other Land They Hap To Be-- Which Drives The Belly Close Beneath The Chin: My Beard Turns Up To Heaven; My Nape Falls In, Fixed On My Spine: My Breast-Bone Visibly Grows Like A Harp: A Rich Embroidery Bedews My Face From Brush-Drops Thick And Thin. My Loins Into My Paunch Like Levers Grind: My Buttock Like A Crupper Bears My Weight; My Feet Unguided Wander To And Fro; In Front My Skin Grows Loose And Long; Behind, By Bending It Becomes More Taut And Strait; Crosswise I Strain Me Like A Syrian Bow: Whence False And Quaint, I Know, Must Be The Fruit Of Squinting Brain And Eye; For Ill Can Aim The Gun That Bends Awry. Come Then, Giovanni, Try To Succour My Dead Pictures And My Fame; Since Foul I Fare And Painting Is My Shame.