I was never the kind of painter or sculptor who kept a shop.
With few words I shall make thee understand my soul.
Trifles make perfection but perfection is not a trifle
Gazing on beautiful things acts on my soul.
Lord free me of myself, so I can please you!
As when, O lady mine, With chiselled touch, The stone unhewn and cold, Becomes a living mould, The more the marble wastes, The more the statue grows.