WHEREIN HE IS RESOLVED TO QUIT LAURA IF — IF —

Yet was I never by Love wearied out,
My Lady, nor shall while my life may last;
But of self-scorn, that date is overpast,
And of continual tears I have a doubt:
I want a sepulchre, white-walled about,
Whose marble, when the soul the flesh hath cast,
Shall keep the secret of your name as fast,
Rather than that my death the reason shout.
However, if a heart of amorous faith
Can, short of torment, feed your savage heart,
May it now please you mercy to impart.

WHEREIN HE CONFESSETH HIS FAULTS AND SEEKETH AFTER HIS SAVIOUR

So grinds the load, so groan I constantly
With my heart's folly and habitual plaint,
That sore I dread the way will see me faint
And hand me to the Original Enemy.
Once came a great and welcome Friend to free
By grace unspeakable my soul from taint,
But fled too soon in spite of all restraint
And left me gazing after wistfully.
Only his gentle voice still seems to say:
" O ye that labour, lo, here is the way!
Come unto me when other refuge closes! "

WHEREIN PASSION INCREASETH WITH THE YEARS AND REMEDY IS NONE

If, of this fourteenth year of sighs, the end
And middle match the opening, then the air
Cannot sustain me, shade cannot defend,
So mount the fiery passions everywhere:
For Love, with whom I cannot half contend,
Beneath whose harness I must breathe despair,
So rides me through these eyes, which I expend
To mine own grief, little remains to spare.
Thus, day by day, I feel my spirits fail,
And yet so secretly that none may guess
But she whose glance dissolves my very soul.

WHEREIN HE ENVIES PYGMALION

When Simon at my wish the lofty dream
Conceived, which put the pencil in his hand,
Had he, who could such loveliness command,
But added voice and intellect, it would seem
This breast a storm of sighs were spared, that deem
Of little worth what strikes the world as grand:
Since, to my foolish sight she looks so bland,
I cannot but read promise in the beam.
When, holding further parley with her eyes,
Meseems almost she smiles as if she heard;
Almost, meseems, almost her mouth replies.

ON SIMON MEMMI'S PORTRAIT OF LAURA

Had Polycletus or his rivals gazed
A thousand years on her who shames all art,
A thousand years had shown the lesser part
Of that great beauty which has left me dazed.
But Simon sure, in Paradise amazed,
Whence came this gentle Lady of my heart,
Saw her and traced her loveliness as chart
And proof on earth that there such beauty blazed.
Truly the work was one in Heaven alone
To be imagined, not among us here
Where the flesh clouds the soul; by Heaven's grace

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
Bears valiantly, but most in my own heart;

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,
Mount uselessly a never-ending stair;

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,
A wanderer unknown, the roaring race

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