Only it grieves me when I understand
What precious time in vanity I've spent-
The wind it beareth man's frail thoughts away.
Yet, since remorse avails not, I'm content,
As erst I came, WELCOME to go one day,
Here in the Flower of this fair Tuscan land.

Introductory Note

AMONG the vast number of men who have thought fit to write down the
history of their own lives, three or four have achieved masterpieces
which stand out preeminently: Saint Augustine in his "Confessions,"
Samuel Pepys in his "Diary," Rousseau in his "Confessions." It is among
these extraordinary documents, and unsurpassed by any of them, that the
autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini takes its place.

The "Life" of himself which Cellini wrote was due to other motives than
those which produced its chief competitors for first place in its class.
St. Augustine's aim was religious and didactic, Pepys noted down in his
diary the daily events of his life for his sole satisfaction and with no
intention that any one should read the cipher in which they were
recorded. But Cellini wrote that the world might know, after he was
dead, what a fellow he had been; what great things he had attempted, and
against what odds he had carried them through. "All men," he held,
"whatever be their condition, who have done anything of merit, or which
verily has a semblance of merit, if so be they are men of truth and good
repute, should write the tale of their life with their own hand." That
he had done many things of merit, he had no manner of doubt. His repute
was great in his day, and perhaps good in the sense in which he meant
goodness; as to whether he was a man of truth, there is still dispute