I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
   There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
   Than both your poets can in praise devise.

W. Shakespeare

Ex Libris a Marc Fumaroli

Qué vivan las utopías, en Marc Fumaroli cuando el francés fue la lingua franca del mundo, el siglo XVII. Hoy se lamenta y nosotros con él de...