Machiavelli : The Art of War; The Prince PDF

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I am at my farm; and, since my last misfortunes, have not been in Florence twenty days.

I spent September in snaring thrushes; but at the end of the month, even this rather tiresome sport failed me.

I rise with the sun, and go into a wood of mine that is being cut, where I remain two hours inspecting the work of the previous day and conversing with the woodcutters, who have always some trouble on hand amongst themselves or with their neighbours.

When I leave the wood, I go to a spring, and thence to the place which I use for snaring birds, with a book under my arm - Dante or Petrarch, or one of the minor poets, like Tibulluss or Ovid.

I read the story of their passions, and let their loves remind me of my own, which is a pleasant pastime for a while.

Next I take the road, enter the inn door, talk with the passers-by, inquire the news of the neighbourhood, listen to a variety of matters, and make note of the different tastes and humours of men.<br><br>This brings me to dinner-time, when I join my family and eat the poor produce of my farm.