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.
Petrarch - Poems
_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.
_Io avro sempre in odio la fenestra._
BETTER IS IT TO DIE HAPPY THAN TO LIVE IN PAIN.
Always in hate the window shall I bear,
Whence Love has shot on me his shafts at will,
Because not one of them sufficed to kill:
For death is good when life is bright and fair,
But in this earthly jail its term to outwear
Is cause to me, alas! of infinite ill;
And mine is worse because immortal still,
Since from the heart the spirit may not tear.
Wretched! ere this who surely ought'st to know
By long experience, from his onward course
None can stay Time by flattery or by force.
Oft and again have I address'd it so:
Mourner, away! he parteth not too soon
Who leaves behind him far his life's calm June.
