No More Learning

MACGREGOR.




SONNET LXII.

_Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie. _

THOUGH NOT SECURE AGAINST THE WILES OF LOVE, HE FEELS STRENGTH ENOUGH TO
RESIST THEM.


Till silver'd o'er by age my temples grow,
Where Time by slow degrees now plants his grey,
Safe shall I never be, in danger's way
While Love still points and plies his fatal bow
I fear no more his tortures and his tricks,
That he will keep me further to ensnare
Nor ope my heart, that, from without, he there
His poisonous and ruthless shafts may fix.
No tears can now find issue from mine eyes,
But the way there so well they know to win,
That nothing now the pass to them denies.
Though the fierce ray rekindle me within,
It burns not all: her cruel and severe
Form may disturb, not break my slumbers here.

MACGREGOR.




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.