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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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Enraged at first, then late his fault bemoans,
And Mariamne calls; those three fair dames
(Who in the list of captives write their names)
Procris, Deidamia, Artemisia were
All good, the other three as wicked are—
Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,
Who of their crooked ways are now ashamed
Here be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,
Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar souls
That wait on these; Guenever, and the fair
Isond, with other lovers; and the pair
Who, as they walk together, seem to plain,
Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain."
Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fears
Approaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,
Starts at the blow ere touch'd, my frighted blood
Retired: as one raised from his tomb I stood;
When by my side I spied a lovely maid,
(No turtle ever purer whiteness had!)
And straight was caught (who lately swore I would
Defend me from a man at arms), nor could
Resist the wounds of words with motion graced:
The image yet is in my fancy placed.
My friend was willing to increase my woe,
And smiling whisper'd,—"You alone may go
Confer with whom you please, for now we are
All stained with one crime." My sullen care
Was like to theirs, who are more grieved to know
Another's happiness than their own woe;
For seeing her, who had enthrall'd my mind,
Live free in peace, and no disturbance find:
And seeing that I knew my hurt too late.
And that her beauty was my dying fate:
Love, jealousy, and envy held my sight
So fix'd on that fair face, no other light
I could behold; like one who in the rage
Of sickness greedily his thirst would 'suage
With hurtful drink, which doth his palate please,
Thus (blind and deaf t' all other joys are ease)
So many doubtful ways I follow'd her,
The memory still shakes my soul with fear.
Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground,
My heart is heavy, and my steps have found
A solitary dwelling 'mongst the woods,
I stray o'er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:
Since when such store my scatter'd papers hold
Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,
Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scope
Of Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;
And how they live that in his cloister dwell,
The skilful in their face may read it well.
Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant she
Cares not for me, nor for my misery,
Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow:
And on the other side (if aught I know),
This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,
She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,
No strength nor courage left, nor can I be
Revenged, as I expected once; for he,
Who tortures me and others, is abused
By her; she'll not be caught, and long hath used
(Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,
And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.
Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;
Her eyes inflaming with a light divine
So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
Ah, who is able fully to express
Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,
No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
My humble style cannot enough come near
The truth; my words are like a little stream
Compared with th' ocean, so large a theme
Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,
Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;
Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:
And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
She neither hears nor pities my estate:
Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lot
I plainly see in this, yet must I not
Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,
With like reward of old have felt like pain.
Now know I how the mind itself doth part
(Now making peace, now war, now truce)—what art
Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:
How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;
And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,
Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:
I trod the paths made happy by her feet,
And search the foe I am afraid to meet.
I know how lovers metamorphosed are
To that they love: I know what tedious care
I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
I live without a soul: I know the way
To cheat myself a thousand times a day:
I know to follow while I flee my fire
And Mariamne calls; those three fair dames
(Who in the list of captives write their names)
Procris, Deidamia, Artemisia were
All good, the other three as wicked are—
Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,
Who of their crooked ways are now ashamed
Here be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,
Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar souls
That wait on these; Guenever, and the fair
Isond, with other lovers; and the pair
Who, as they walk together, seem to plain,
Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain."
Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fears
Approaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,
Starts at the blow ere touch'd, my frighted blood
Retired: as one raised from his tomb I stood;
When by my side I spied a lovely maid,
(No turtle ever purer whiteness had!)
And straight was caught (who lately swore I would
Defend me from a man at arms), nor could
Resist the wounds of words with motion graced:
The image yet is in my fancy placed.
My friend was willing to increase my woe,
And smiling whisper'd,—"You alone may go
Confer with whom you please, for now we are
All stained with one crime." My sullen care
Was like to theirs, who are more grieved to know
Another's happiness than their own woe;
For seeing her, who had enthrall'd my mind,
Live free in peace, and no disturbance find:
And seeing that I knew my hurt too late.
And that her beauty was my dying fate:
Love, jealousy, and envy held my sight
So fix'd on that fair face, no other light
I could behold; like one who in the rage
Of sickness greedily his thirst would 'suage
With hurtful drink, which doth his palate please,
Thus (blind and deaf t' all other joys are ease)
So many doubtful ways I follow'd her,
The memory still shakes my soul with fear.
Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground,
My heart is heavy, and my steps have found
A solitary dwelling 'mongst the woods,
I stray o'er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:
Since when such store my scatter'd papers hold
Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,
Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scope
Of Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;
And how they live that in his cloister dwell,
The skilful in their face may read it well.
Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant she
Cares not for me, nor for my misery,
Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow:
And on the other side (if aught I know),
This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,
She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,
No strength nor courage left, nor can I be
Revenged, as I expected once; for he,
Who tortures me and others, is abused
By her; she'll not be caught, and long hath used
(Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,
And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.
Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;
Her eyes inflaming with a light divine
So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
Ah, who is able fully to express
Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,
No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
My humble style cannot enough come near
The truth; my words are like a little stream
Compared with th' ocean, so large a theme
Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,
Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;
Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:
And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
She neither hears nor pities my estate:
Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lot
I plainly see in this, yet must I not
Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,
With like reward of old have felt like pain.
Now know I how the mind itself doth part
(Now making peace, now war, now truce)—what art
Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:
How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;
And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,
Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:
I trod the paths made happy by her feet,
And search the foe I am afraid to meet.
I know how lovers metamorphosed are
To that they love: I know what tedious care
I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
I live without a soul: I know the way
To cheat myself a thousand times a day:
I know to follow while I flee my fire
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