How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free,
  When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?

  One only comfort soothes my heart’s despair,
    And mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer;
  Unto my lord I ever yielded fair
    Service of faith untainted pure and clear;
    If then I die thus guiltless, on my bier
  It may be she will shed one tear for me.

  How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free,
  When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?

The Florentine Rispetto was written for the most part in octave stanzas, detached or continuous.  The octave stanza in Italian literature was an emphatically popular form; and it is still largely used in many parts of the peninsula for the lyrical expression of emotion.[31] Poliziano did no more than treat it with his own facility, sacrificing the unstudied raciness of his popular models to literary elegance.

Here are a few of these detached stanzas or Rispetti Spicciolati:—­

  Upon that day when first I saw thy face,
    I vowed with loyal love to worship thee. 
  Move, and I move; stay, and I keep my place: 
    Whate’er thou dost, will I do equally.

  In joy of thine I find most perfect grace,
    And in thy sadness dwells my misery: 
  Laugh, and I laugh; weep, and I too will weep. 
  Thus Love commands, whose laws I loving keep.

  Nay, be not over-proud of thy great grace,
    Lady! for brief time is thy thief and mine. 
  White will he turn those golden curls, that lace
    Thy forehead and thy neck so marble-fine. 
  Lo! while the flower still flourisheth apace,
    Pluck it:  for beauty but awhile doth shine. 
  Fair is the rose at dawn; but long ere night
    Her freshness fades, her pride hath vanished quite.

  Fire, fire!  Ho, water! for my heart’s afire! 
    Ho, neighbours! help me, or by God I die! 
  See, with his standard, that great lord, Desire! 
    He sets my heart aflame:  in vain I cry. 
  Too late, alas!  The flames mount high and higher. 
    Alack, good friends!  I faint, I fail, I die. 
  Ho! water, neighbours mine! no more delay I
  My heart’s a cinder if you do but stay.

  Lo, may I prove to Christ a renegade,
    And, dog-like, die in pagan Barbary;
  Nor may God’s mercy on my soul be laid,
    If ere for aught I shall abandon thee: 
  Before all-seeing God this prayer be made—­
    When I desert thee, may death feed on me: 
  Now if thy hard heart scorn these vows, be sure
  That without faith none may abide secure.

  I ask not, Love, for any other pain
    To make thy cruel foe and mine repent,
  Only that thou shouldst yield her to the strain
    Of these my arms, alone, for chastisement;
  Then would I clasp her so with might and main,
    That she should learn to pity and relent,
  And, in revenge for scorn and proud despite,
  A thousand times I’d kiss her forehead white.