The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Which first her charms inflamed Her fair and frozen virtue quenched the light; That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire, Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.
Beyond our earth's known brinks, In the famed Islands of the Blest, there be Two founts: of this who drinks Dies smiling: who of that to live is free.
A kindred fate Heaven links To my sad life, who, smilingly, could die For like o'erflowing joy, But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay.
Love! still who guidest my way, Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites, Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour, Ever with larger power O'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites; So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet, But in that season most when I my Lady met.
Should any ask, my Song!
Or how or where I am, to such reply: Where the tall mountain throws Its shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows, He roams, where never eye Save Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by, And one dear image who his peace destroys, Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CV.
_Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova._
HE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROME.
Vengeaunce must fall on thee, thow filthie wh.o.r.e Of Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold, That from achorns, and from the water colde, Art riche become with making many poore.
Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holde Of cankard malice, and of myschief more Than pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde, Slave to delights that chast.i.tie hath solde; For wyne and ease which sett.i.th all thie store Uppon wh.o.r.edome and none other lore, In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and olde Theare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde: Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde: It is but late, as wryting will recorde, That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde; Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde, In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode, That it dothe stincke before the face of G.o.d.
(?) WYATT.[T]
[Footnote T: Harrington's Nugae Antiquae.]
May fire from heaven rain down upon thy head, Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by, Made rich and great by others' poverty; How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed!
Nest of all treachery, in which is bred Whate'er of sin now through the world doth fly; Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony; With sensuality's excesses fed!
Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance; Then in the midst see Belzebub advance With mirrors and provocatives obscene.
Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down; But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown: Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean.
NOTT.
SONNET CVI.
_L' avara Babilonia ha colmo 'l sacco._
HE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUE.
Covetous Babylon of wrath divine By its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now, And for its future G.o.ds to whom to bow Not Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine.
Though hoping reason, I consume and pine, Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow, Who shall again build up, and we avow One faith in G.o.d, in Rome one head and shrine.
Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dust Her proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd, Her wardens into flames and exile thrust, Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the world Possess in peace; and we shall see it made All gold, and fully its old works display'd.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CVII.
_Fontana di dolore, albergo d' ira._
HE ATTRIBUTES THE WICKEDNESS OF THE COURT OF ROME TO ITS GREAT WEALTH.
Spring of all woe, O den of curssed ire, Scoole of errour, temple of heresye; Thow Pope, I meane, head of hypocrasye, Thow and thie churche, unsaciat of desyre, Have all the world filled full of myserye; Well of disceate, thow dungeon full of fyre, That hydes all truthe to breed idolatrie.
Thow wicked wretche, Chryste cannot be a lyer, Behold, therefore, thie judgment hastelye; Thye first founder was gentill povertie, But there against is all thow dost requyre.
Thow shameless beaste wheare hast thow thie trust, In thie wh.o.r.edome, or in thie riche attyre?
Loe! Constantyne, that is turned into dust, Shall not retourne for to mayntaine thie l.u.s.t; But now his heires, that might not sett thee higher, For thie greate pryde shall teare thye seate asonder, And scourdge thee so that all the world shall wonder.
(?) WYATT.[U]
[Footnote U: Harrington's Nugae Antiquae.]
Fountain of sorrows, centre of mad ire, Rank error's school and fane of heresy, Once Rome, now Babylon, the false and free, Whom fondly we lament and long desire.
O furnace of deceits, O prison dire, Where good roots die and the ill-weed grows a tree h.e.l.l upon earth, great marvel will it be If Christ reject thee not in endless fire.
Founded in humble poverty and chaste, Against thy founders lift'st thou now thy horn, Impudent harlot! Is thy hope then placed In thine adult'ries and thy wealth ill-born?
Since comes no Constantine his own to claim, The vext world must endure, or end its shame.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CVIII.
_Quanto piu desiose l' ali spando._
FAR FROM HIS FRIENDS, HE FLIES TO THEM IN THOUGHT.
The more my own fond wishes would impel My steps to you, sweet company of friends!
Fortune with their free course the more contends, And elsewhere bids me roam, by snare and spell The heart, sent forth by me though it rebel, Is still with you where that fair vale extends, In whose green windings most our sea ascends, From which but yesterday I wept farewell.
It took the right-hand way, the left I tried, I dragg'd by force in slavery to remain, It left at liberty with Love its guide; But patience is great comfort amid pain: Long habits mutually form'd declare That our communion must be brief and rare.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CIX.
