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Machiavelli, Volume I 1 Machiavelli, Volume I The Project Gutenberg eBook, Machiavelli, Volume I, by Niccolò Machiavelli, Translated by Peter Whitehorne and Edward Dacres This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re−use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Machiavelli, Volume I The Art of War; and The Prince Author: Niccolò Machiavelli Translator: Peter Whitehorne and Edward Dacres Release Date: May 6, 2005 [eBook #15772] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO−8859−1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MACHIAVELLI, VOLUME I*** E−text prepared by Ted Garvin, David King, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team MACHIAVELLI WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY CUST. M.P. VOLUME I THE ART OF WAR TRANSLATED BY PETER WHITEHORNE 1560 THE PRINCE TRANSLATED BY EDWARD DACRES 1640 LONDON Machiavelli, Volume I 2 Published by DAVID NUTT at the Sign of the Phoenix LONG ACRE 1905 Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty TO MY FRIEND CHARLES WHIBLEY H.C. INTRODUCTION [Sidenote: The Life of a Day.] '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 Tibullus 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. 'This brings me to dinner−time, when I join my family and eat the poor produce of my farm. After dinner I go back to the inn, where I generally find the host and a butcher, a miller, and a pair of bakers. With these companions I play the fool all day at cards or backgammon: a thousand squabbles, a thousand insults and abusive dialogues take place, while we haggle over a farthing, and shout loud enough to be heard from San Casciano. 'But when evening falls I go home and enter my writing−room. On the threshold I put off my country habits, filthy with mud and mire, and array myself in royal courtly garments. Thus worthily attired, I make my entrance into the ancient courts of the men of old, where they receive me with love, and where I feed upon that food which only is my own and for which I was born. I feel no shame in conversing with them and asking them the reason of their actions. 'They, moved by their humanity, make answer. For four hours' space I feel no annoyance, forget all care; poverty cannot frighten, nor death appal me. I am carried away to their society. And since Dante says "that there is no science unless we retain what we have learned" I have set down what I have gained from their discourse, and composed a treatise, _De Principalibus_, in which I enter as deeply as I can into the science of the subject, with reasonings on the nature of principality, its several species, and how they are acquired, how maintained, how lost. If you ever liked any of my scribblings, this ought to suit your taste. To a prince, and especially to a new prince, it ought to prove acceptable. Therefore I am dedicating it to the Magnificence of Giuliano.' [Sidenote: Niccolò Machiavelli.] Such is the acc