English

TO A FRIEND, WHEREIN, THOUGH WORN TO A SHADOW, THE POET PROTESTS LOVE'S SERVITUDE IS SWEET

Love, with his promises and flattery,
Seduced me back to the old prison cell,
And gave the keys to that dear sentinel
Who still divides my proper self from me.
Alas! I dreamed not of his subtlety
Until in Love's and Laura's hands I fell,
(Who will believe it, though I swear it well?)
Now heavy are the sighs that set me free.
And like a veritable captive smitten,
Of my harsh chains the greater part I carry,

WHEREIN HE CANNOT EVER WEARY HYMNING HER EYES

The brilliant eyes which struck me in such wise
That they alone can heal the wound they made,
Not virtuous herbs nor artful magic's aid,
Nor fabulous Mediterranean stone's device,
So blind to other Love by these same eyes,
One sweet thought only can my soul persuade,
From following which, if my tongue has not strayed,
Despise the thought, the tongue do not despise.
These are the lovely eyes which Love the Lord
On his invincible shield in every part

WHEREIN HE MARVELS THAT HE IS NOT YET WEARY OF LIVING, THINKING, WRITING HER

Already I grow weary thinking how,
Unwearying, my thoughts upon thee dwell,
And how to life they cling as to their hell
When they might quit their sighing at one blow;
And how of that sweet face, that hair, that brow,
Those eyes the sun's pure golden citadel,
By day and night naming thy name I tell
Their virtues in my beads until they glow!
And how my feet, not tired, not broken, still
Following thy dear footsteps everywhere,

WHEREIN, CROSSING FROM MARSEILLES TO ROME, THE POET PERCEIVES THAT THOUGH HE FLIES FROM LOVE, LOVE IS THE WINGS

Ah Love, when hath mere caution once availed
Against thy strength since man betrayed his trust!
The frequent snare, the oath that turns to dust
Give sharp proof how thy talons have not failed;
But lately, to my marvel, as I sailed
Between the Tuscan shore and Elba, thrust
Before mine eyes this miracle that must
Be told accused me and my spirit quailed:
I fled thine outstretched hand and as I fled,

TO A FRIEND, WHEREIN THE POET IS TORN BETWEEN ROME AND LAURA

The sacred aspect of your native shore
Prompts many a groan for my ungodly past,
Crying: " Arise, thou wretch! Leave off at last! "
And pointing the heaven road where I should soar.
But soon another thought is conqueror,
Questioning me: " Why runnest thou so fast?
If memory serves, but little time thou hast
For seeing her whom thou must still adore. "
I, who this second reason understand,
Freeze in my soul, as one who suddenly hears

WHEREIN, LURED BY LAUREL, HE FALLS INTO A GRASSY RIVULET

Upon the left bank of the Tyrrhene sea,
Where, broken by the wind, the waves complain,
I suddenly saw that haughty leaf again,
For which so many a poem pours from me:
Love, that within the heart boils fearfully,
Remembering her bright hair with golden pain,
Pressed me, till in a rivulet dark with stain
Of grasses, wandering in soft secrecy,
I fell like a dead thing... With hill and grove
About me, I felt shamed: the gentle heart

WHEREIN HE ENTREATS LOVE TO KINDLE IN LAURA'S BOSOM THE FIRE WHICH CEASELESSLY CONSUMES HIM

Alas! how little, in those first fierce days
When Love probed deep, was my heart known to me,
Where by degrees he gained the mastery
Of my whole life in many subtle ways:
I never thought that, with his yeas and nays,
This heart, hammered by time so terribly,
Could show such faintness, such infirmity,
And to its folly its poor pride abase.
From now on, all defence will come too late
Save this, such as it is, to prove my fate,

WHEREIN HE ENTREATS LAURA NOT TO HATE THE
HEART WHERE SHE MUST PERFORCE ABIDE

If, by the troubled and disdainful sign,
The head averted and the lowered eyes,
The readiness for flight (none other flies
So fast), the deafness to all prayers of mine:
If thou, by these or other arts of thine,
Canst quit the laurelled breast where multiplies
Love's branch from the first graft, for such emprise,
Such scorn I might a worthy cause divine:
For a sweet plant of light in arid earth

TO GOD ON HOLY FRIDAY, THE ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS FOLLY

Father of heaven! after the days all lost,
After the nights on foolish fancies spent
In that fierce passion's proud imprisonment,
Seeing her beauty to my bitter cost;
Please Thee, with Thine illuminating ghost
Of grace, to new light, worthier intent
Return me, so that Love's snares may be rent
Asunder and my cruel foe be crossed.
Already now, O Lord, the eleventh year
Waxes and wanes, since first his pitiless yoke

HAVING RECEIVED SOME FAVOUR, A GLANCE OR SALUTATION, HE TURNS HIS CURSES INTO BLESSINGS

Blest be the day, and blest the month and year,
Season and hour and very moment blest,
The lovely land and place where first possessed
By two pure eyes I found me prisoner;
And blest the first sweet pain, the first most dear,
Which burned my heart when Love came in as guest;
And blest the bow, the shafts which shook my breast,
And even the wounds which Love delivered there.
Blest be the words and voices which filled grove