No More Learning

SONNET LXIII.

_Occhi, piangete; accompagnate il core. _

DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE POET AND HIS EYES.


Playne ye, myne eyes, accompanye my harte,
For, by your fault, lo, here is death at hand!
Ye brought hym first into this bitter band,
And of his harme as yett ye felt no part;
But now ye shall: Lo! here beginnes your smart.
Wett shall you be, ye shall it not withstand
With weepinge teares that shall make dymm your sight,
And mystic clowdes shall hang still in your light.
Blame but yourselves that kyndlyd have this brand,
With suche desyre to strayne that past your might;
But, since by you the hart hath caught his harme,
His flamed heat shall sometyme make you warme.

HARRINGTON.


_P. _ Weep, wretched eyes, accompany the heart
Which only from your weakness death sustains.
_E. _ Weep? evermore we weep; with keener pains
For others' error than our own we smart.
_P.
_ Love, entering first through you an easy part,
Took up his seat, where now supreme he reigns.
_E. _ We oped to him the way, but Hope the veins
First fired of him now stricken by death's dart.
_P. _ The lots, as seems to you, scarce equal fall
'Tween heart and eyes, for you, at first sight, were
Enamour'd of your common ill and shame.
_E. _ This is the thought which grieves us most of all;
For perfect judgments are on earth so rare
That one man's fault is oft another's blame.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET LXIV.

_Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancora. _

HE LOVES, AND WILL ALWAYS LOVE, THE SPOT AND THE HOUR IN WHICH HE FIRST
BECAME ENAMOURED OF LAURA.


I always loved, I love sincerely yet,
And to love more from day to day shall learn,
The charming spot where oft in grief I turn
When Love's severities my bosom fret:
My mind to love the time and hour is set
Which taught it each low care aside to spurn;
She too, of loveliest face, for whom I burn
Bids me her fair life love and sin forget.
Who ever thought to see in friendship join'd,
On all sides with my suffering heart to cope,
The gentle enemies I love so well?
Love now is paramount my heart to bind,
And, save that with desire increases hope,
Dead should I lie alive where I would dwell.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET LXV.