"In the Phrygian fields Marsyas | not only sweet sounds and sings, | but being more learned boasts | of the ruler of Pindus. || Fauns, Satyrs, and Sylvans, | Semi-goats, Semi-Gods, | to the sweet and beautiful poems | with pointed ears stan. || The Satyr is swollen with pride it comes that Apollo mocks himself; | Phoebus descends to the challenge, | and filled my heart with indignation. || The Capriped Satyr sings; | the anger within the God is inflamed, | as in wood ascosa flame | it usually sparkles in the wind. || L'Amadriadi listeners | to like Marsyas they give a sign: | but he brings wood to her beautiful lip Phoebus, and gives breath to it. || Sweet breath now pushes you; | now tremoli and shipped, | flying, the light fingers, | make the Goddesses marvel. || New laurel is grafted into the crin | of the Muses to the ruler, | but the fury did not abate which Marsyas stirred in him. || Formerly of Styx at the peat lake | he swore revenge on her, | and is now in a hurry to complete it above the miserable mortal. || The miserable man is tied to a pine tree he wants it to die little by little; | he already flays it and squojas it | with the rustic knife. || Blood drips, and veins and muscles | they reveal themselves, they show themselves; | and his limbs unravel, | and they are all a plague. || If such a reward were waiting today | who believes himself to be a new Apollo, | what should feral collapse | and yet put up with it! || The exalted poet is indeed mad he hates and takes pride in himself. | The nightingale with hoarse song | so he challenges the vile bird. || But even Phoebus I already don't praise, | because the comparison was low, | and he insulted himself, | when he challenged him to the poem. || He had to with silence | curb vile pride, | nor did he have to be a gentle singer | with a Satyr chattering. || The taller bear, in chains, | aware of his strength, | of the mastin he does not hear and despises | often rabid barking. || This is how Apollo should have shown himself; | but can anyone conquer himself? | Nor is there any virtue that is nearby don't make any mistakes. (Teresa Bandettini)"