"Heu, poor Rienzo!"

It's must be much easier to say, that at one time god ties someone, at another time god releases another one whenever it may please him; this is He who once ruled Jerusalem declaim, "under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong": ye gods! how easy it became in our days to recite these words rather than believing the truth in them. O treacherous Fortuna! Have you seen that how often people invoke you not for condemning your being unstable, but to appease those whom you have never favoured. The thoughts of the unhappy men of our age now has filled my mind, yet I read our Petrarch's letters to you-how could i say, all of them, my Rienzo! were i ever been allowed to address you in this way that many ancients your cruel corresponder called-I read and the sorrow grew to further, for in my contemporaries I lament the absence of your lovely virtue, in you I deplore for another time on the very misery which stands for so many centuries.
Let the crafty Seneca be condemned for his false words, namely he asserted that everyone is in the same race of Virtue. Let's spare ourselves from the labour of investigating every mortal on or under the earth, but choose some of them, you, and your dear Aretine Francesco. One live in ease among (as he said about himself) princes and nobles from childhood, one grew with oppressed people in obscurity and hardship; on one there pours praise and honor never cease, one goes through endless bitter years a people was force into disgrace. How unfair! What he was unable to, to which you were supposed to be obliged. For long since i saw such happened in my age-o Rienzo, I'm almost of your age when you firstly stepped into eternal glory, although unhappy me, we live in so different ages-how innocence is despised! As an old wife picked a feeble lily by the road, by cutting and banding shape it to her unworthy vase to make an amusement divulged to her friends; while the lily soon after boasting its first fresh bloom, withered and be thrown into trash by the very wicked hands, its stem loosed the juice of sweet youth: in the same way many of our young people are deprived of honor and dignity. How should I tell? A man asked me why while many are released, his friend is still in chains. Poor man, even Liberty the goddess herself contempts humble birth; who, pray, will hire expensive lawyers, whose parents befriended a massive of powerful man? Whose bribery will move the guards in tyrant's prison, on whose expense will the wretched in chains have his meal? People from humble are rarely blessed with eloquence even for telling the pains, which is abused so far as for tyrant's servants to decorate vice. Catullus' dirge on a sparrow is heard until the earth's pole, haven't ever been any silent donkey exhausted on toils? Heu, heu, be gone ye dumb philosophers, be gone ye ignorant poets! Once born with the name of the Porcii, who can't be Uticensis Cato? Metellus told that he was going well, to numberless brave Gaius and Seius. Alas Virtue, who are you if without an equally wretched poet advertising? Alas poor Rizenzo, how much i wish i could embrace you like all the good people may wish, even more than to my contemporaries.