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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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SESTINA VIII
Là ver l' aurora, che sì dolce l' auraSHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARSWhen music warbles from each thorn,And Zephyr's dewy wingsSweep the young flowers; what time the mornHer crimson radiance flings:Then, as the smiling year renews,I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;And I for comfort court the weeping muse.Oh! could my sighs in accents flowSo musically lorn,That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:Yet, ere within thy icy breastThe smallest spark of passion's found,Winter's cold temples shall be boundWith all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,The love-impassion'd strainTo move thy flinty bosom tryFull oft;—but, ah! in vainWould tears, and melting song avail;As vainly might the silken breeze,That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.Both gods and men alike are sway'dBy Love, as poets tell;—And I, when flowers in every shadeTheir bursting gems reveal,First felt his all-subduing power:While Laura knows not yet the smart;Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,While life shall warm this clay;And soothing sounds to Laura's earMy numbers shall convey;Numbers with forceful magic charmAll nature o'er the frost-bound earth,Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,Now laughs his purple plain;And shall the nymph a foe profestTo tenderness remain?But oh! what solace shall I find,If fortune dooms me yet to bearThe frowns of my relentless Fair,Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?In baffling nets the light-wing'd galeI'd fetter as it blows,The vernal rose that scents the valeI'd cull on wintery snows;Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to moveWhich dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.Anon. 1777.SONNET CCI
Real natura, angelico intellettoON THE KISS OF HONOUR GIVEN BY CHARLES OF LUXEMBURG TO LAURA AT A BANQUETA kingly nature, an angelic mind,A spotless soul, prompt aspect and keen eye,Quick penetration, contemplation highAnd truly worthy of the breast which shrined:In bright assembly lovely ladies join'dTo grace that festival with gratulant joy,Amid so many and fair faces nighSoon his good judgment did the fairest find.Of riper age and higher rank the restGently he beckon'd with his hand aside,And lovingly drew near the perfect one:So courteously her eyes and brow he press'd,All at his choice in fond approval vied—Envy through my sole veins at that sweet freedom run.Macgregor.A sovereign nature,—an exalted mind,—A soul proud—sleepless—with a lynx's eye,—An instant foresight,—thought as towering high,E'en as the heart in which they are enshrined:A bright assembly on that day combinedEach other in his honour to outvie,When 'mid the fair his judgment did descryThat sweet perfection all to her resign'd.Unmindful of her rival sisterhood,He motion'd silently his preference,And fondly welcomed her, that humblest one:So pure a kiss he gave, that all who stood,Though fair, rejoiced in beauty's recompense:By that strange act nay heart was quite undone!Wollaston.
SONNET CCII
I' ho pregato Amor, e nel ripregoHE PLEADS THE EXCESS OF HIS PASSION IN PALLIATION OF HIS FAULTOft have I pray'd to Love, and still I pray,My charming agony, my bitter joy!That he would crave your grace, if consciouslyFrom the right path my guilty footsteps stray.That Reason, which o'er happier minds holds sway,Is quell'd of Appetite, I not deny;And hence, through tracks my better thoughts would fly,The victor hurries me perforce away,You, in whose bosom Genius, Virtue reignWith mingled blaze lit by auspicious skies—Ne'er shower'd kind star its beams on aught so rare!You, you should say with pity, not disdain;"How could he 'scape, lost wretch! these lightning eyes—So passionate he, and I so direly fair?"Wrangham.SONNET CCIII
L' alto signor, dinanzi a cui non valeHIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAMEThe sovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no availConcealment, or resistance is, or flight,My mind had kindled to a new delightBy his own amorous and ardent ail:Though his first blow, transfixing my best mailWere mortal sure, to push his triumph quiteHe took a shaft of sorrow in his right,So my soft heart on both sides to assail.A burning wound the one shed fire and flame,The other tears, which ever grief distils,Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills.But no relief from either fountain cameMy bosom's conflagration to abate,Nay, passion grew by very pity great.Macgregor.SONNET CCIV
Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vagoHE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT HERP. Look on that hill, my fond but harass'd heart!Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to takeSome care of us and friendlier looks to dart;Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:Return alone—I love to be apart—Try, if perchance the day will ever breakTo mitigate our still increasing smart,Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.H. O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell,Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget,Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet?When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,Thou didst depart alone: it stay'd with her,Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home, to stir.Macgregor.SONNET CCV
Fresco ambroso fiorito e verde colleHE CONGRATULATES HIS HEART ON ITS REMAINING WITH HERO hill with green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung!Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay,Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say,Sits she by fame through every region sung:My heart, which wisely unto her has clung—More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay!Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray,Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung;Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove,"Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot,Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love!"She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not:Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove—O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!Wrangham.Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd,Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet,To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat!She who from all the world has honour found.Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound—Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet—Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet,Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd,Then inly whispers as her steps advance,"Would for awhile that wreteh were here aloneWho pines already o'er his bitter lot."She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance;An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone.O holy, happy, and beloved spot!Macgregor.
SONNET CCVI
Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggioTO A FRIEND, IN LOVE LIKE HIMSELF, HE CAN GIVE NO ADVICE BUT TO RAISE HIS SOUL TO GODEvil oppresses me and worse dismay,To which a plain and ample way I find;Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind,Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way.Nor know I if for war or peace to pray:To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd.But wherefore languish thus?—Rather, resign'd,Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey.However ill that honour me beseemBy thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheatsWhich many a perfect eye to error sways,To raise thy spirit to that realm supremeMy counsel is, and win those blissful seats:For short the time, and few the allotted days.Capel Lofft.The bad oppresses me, the worse dismays,To which so broad and plain a path I see;My spirit, to like frenzy led with thee,Tried by the same hard thoughts, in dotage strays,Nor knows if peace or war of God it prays,Though great the loss and deep the shame to me.But why pine longer? Best our lot will be,What Heaven's high will ordains when man obeys.Though I of that great honour worthless proveOffer'd by thee—herein Love leads to errWho often makes the sound eye to see wrong—My counsel this, instant on Heaven aboveThy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur,For though the time be short, the way is long.Macgregor.
SONNET CCVII
Due rose fresche, e colte in paradisoTHE TWO ROSESTwo brilliant roses, fresh from Paradise,Which there, on May-day morn, in beauty sprungFair gift, and by a lover old and wiseEqually offer'd to two lovers young:At speech so tender and such winning guise,As transports from a savage might have wrung,A living lustre lit their mutual eyes,And instant on their cheeks a soft blush hung.The sun ne'er look'd upon a lovelier pair,With a sweet smile and gentle sigh he said,Pressing the hands of both and turn'd away.Of words and roses each alike had share.E'en now my worn heart thrill with joy and dread,O happy eloquence! O blessed day!Macgregor.SONNET CCVIII
L' aura che 'l verde Lauro e l' aureo crineHE PRAYS THAT HE MAY DIE BEFORE LAURAThe balmy gale, that, with its tender sigh,Moves the green laurel and the golden hair,Makes with its graceful visitings and rareThe gazer's spirit from his body fly.A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set!Where in the world her fellow shall we find?The glory of our age! Creator kind!Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met.So the great public loss I may not see,The world without its sun, in darkness left,And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft,My mind with which no other thoughts agree,Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'dExcept her ever pure and gentle word.Macgregor.SONNET CCIX
Parrà forse ad alcun, che 'n lodar quellaHE INVITES THOSE TO WHOM HIS PRAISES SEEM EXCESSIVE TO BEHOLD THE OBJECT OF THEMHaply my style to some may seem too freeIn praise of her who holds my being's chain,Queen of her sex describing her to reign,Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be:To me it seems not so; I fear that sheMy lays as low and trifling may disdain,Worthy a higher and a better strain;—Who thinks not with me let him come and see.Then will he say, She whom his wishes seekIs one indeed whose grace and worth might tireThe muses of all lands and either lyre.But mortal tongue for state divine is weak,And may not soar; by flattery and force,As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.Macgregor.SONNET CCX
Chi vuol veder quantunque può NaturaWHOEVER BEHOLDS HER MUST ADMIT THAT HIS PRAISES CANNOT REACH HER PERFECTIONWho wishes to behold the utmost mightOf Heaven and Nature, on her let him gaze,Sole sun, not only in my partial lays,But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light!And let him haste to view; for death in spiteThe guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys;For this loved angel heaven impatient stays;And mortal charms are transient as they're bright!Here shall he see, if timely he arrive,Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind,In one bless'd union join'd. Then shall he sayThat vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive,Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind:—He must for ever weep if he delay!Charlemont.Stranger, whose curious glance delights to traceWhat Heaven and Nature join'd to frame most rare;Here view mine eyes' bright sun—a sight so fair,That purblind worlds, like me, enamour'd gaze.But speed thy step; for Death with rapid pacePursues the best, nor makes the bad his care:Call'd to the skies through yon blue fields of air,On buoyant plume the mortal grace obeys.Then haste, and mark in one rich form combined(And, for that dazzling lustre dimm'd mine eye,Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay)Each charm of person, and each power of mind—But, slowly if thy lingering foot comply,Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay.Wrangham.
SONNET CCXI
Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a menteMELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGESO Laura! when my tortured mindThe sad remembrance bearsOf that ill-omen'd day,When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,I left my soul behind,That soul that could not from its partner stray;In nightly visions to my longing eyesThy form oft seems to rise,As ever thou wert seen,Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen,But loosely in the wind,Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,That late with studious care,I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief,As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deignTo hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain!Woodhouselee.What dread I feel when I revolve the dayI left my mistress, sad, without repose,My heart too with her: and my fond thought knowsNought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay.Again my fancy doth her form portrayMeek among beauty's train, like to some roseMidst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness,Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings direRaise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!Nott.
SONNET CCXII
Solea lontana in sonno consolarmeSHE ANNOUNCES TO HIM, IN A VISION, THAT HE WILL NEVER SEE HER MORETo soothe me distant far, in days gone by,With dreams of one whose glance all heaven combined,Was mine; now fears and sorrow haunt my mind,Nor can I from that grief, those terrors fly:For oft in sleep I mark within her eyeDeep pity with o'erwhelming sadness join'd;And oft I seem to hear on every windAccents, which from my breast chase peace and joy."That last dark eve," she cries, "remember'st thou,When to those doting eyes I bade farewell,Forced by the time's relentless tyranny?I had not then the power, nor heart to tell,What thou shalt find, alas! too surely true—Hope not again on earth thy Laura's face to see."Wrangham.SONNET CCXIII
O misera ed orribil visioneHE CANNOT BELIEVE IN HER DEATH, BUT IF TRUE, HE PRAYS GOD TO TAKE HIM ALSO FROM LIFEO misery! horror! can it, then, be true,That the sweet light before its time is spent,'Mid all its pains which could my life content,And ever with fresh hopes of good renew?If so, why sounds not other channels through,Nor only from herself, the great event?No! God and Nature could not thus consent,And my dark fears are groundless and undue.Still it delights my heart to hope once moreThe welcome sight of that enchanting face,The glory of our age, and life to me.But if, to her eternal home to soar,That heavenly spirit have left her earthly place,Oh! then not distant may my last day be!Macgregor.SONNET CCXIV
In dubbio di mio stato, or piango, or cantoTO HIS LONGING TO SEE HER AGAIN IS NOW ADDED THE FEAR OF SEEING HER NO MOREUncertain of my state, I weep and sing,I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighsI ease my load, while Love his utmost triesHow worse my sore afflicted heart to sting.Will her sweet seraph face again e'er bringTheir former light to these despairing eyes.(What to expect, alas! or how advise)Or must eternal grief my bosom wring?For heaven, which justly it deserves to win,It cares not what on earth may be their fate,Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze.Such terror, so perpetual warfare in,Changed from my former self, I live of lateAs one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.Macgregor.SONNET CCXV
O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorteHE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIMO angel looks! O accents of the skies!Shall I or see or hear you once again?O golden tresses, which my heart enchain,And lead it forth, Love's willing sacrifice!O face of beauty given in anger's guise,Which still I not enjoy, and still complain!O dear delusion! O bewitching pain!Transports, at once my punishment and prize!If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam(Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside)Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow;Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried,Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam;Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.Wrangham.O gentle looks! O words of heavenly sound!Shall I behold you, hear you once again?O waving locks, that Love has made the chain,In which this wretched ruin'd heart is bound!O face divine! whose magic spells surroundMy soul, distemper'd with unceasing pain:O dear deceit! O loving errors vain!To hug the dart and doat upon the wound!Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic lightMy life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find,Ever impart a pure unmixed delight?Or if they have one moment, then unkindFortune steps in, and sends me from their sight,And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.Morehead.
SONNET CCXVI
I' pur ascolto, e non odo novellaHEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIRStill do I wait to hear, in vain still wait,Of that sweet enemy I love so well:What now to think or say I cannot tell,'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:The beautiful are still the marks of fate;And sure her worth and beauty most excel:What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwellWhere virtue finds a more congenial state?If so, she will illuminate that sphereEven as a sun: but I—'tis done with me!I then am nothing, have no business here!O cruel absence! why not let me seeThe worst? my little tale is told, I fear,My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.Morehead.No tidings yet—I listen, but in vain;Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,What or to think or say I nothing know,So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,Danger to some has in their beauty lain;Fairer and chaster she than others show;God haply seeks to snatch from earth belowVirtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain,Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh,My life, its trials long, its brief reposeAre ended all. O cruel absence! whyDidst thou remove me from the menaced woes?My short sad story is already done,And midway in its course my vain race run.Macgregor.
SONNET CCXVII
La sera desiar, odiar l' auroraCONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVETranquil and happy loves in this agree,The evening to desire and morning hate:On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait—Morning is still the happier hour for me.For then my sun and Nature's oft I seeOpening at once the orient's rosy gate,So match'd in beauty and in lustre great,Heaven seems enamour'd of our earth to be!As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burstWhose roots have since so centred in my core,Another than myself is cherish'd more.Thus the two hours contrast, day's last and first:Reason it is who calms me to desire,And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.Macgregor.SONNET CCXVIII
Far potess' io vendetta di coleiHIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEPOh! that from her some vengeance I could wrestWith words and glances who my peace destroys,And then abash'd, for my worse sorrow, flies,Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest;Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress'dBy sure degrees she sorely drains and dries,And in my heart, as savage lion, criesEven at night, when most I should have rest.My soul, which sleep expels from his abode,The body leaves, and, from its trammels free,Seeks her whose mien so often menace show'd.I marvel much, if heard its advent be,That while to her it spake, and o'er her wept,And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.Macgregor.SONNET CCXIX
In quel bel viso, ch' i' sospiro e bramoON LAURA PUTTING HER HAND BEFORE HER EYES WHILE HE WAS GAZING ON HEROn the fair face for which I long and sighMine eyes were fasten'd with desire intense.When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply,Her honour'd hand uplifting, shut me thence.My heart there caught—as fish a fair hook by,Or as a young bird on a limèd fence—For good deeds follow from example high,To truth directed not its busied sense.But of its one desire my vision reft,As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way,Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left:My soul between those rival glories lay,Fill'd with a heavenly and new delight,Whose strange surpassing sweets engross'd it quite.Macgregor.SONNET CCXX
Vive faville uscian de' duo bei lumiA SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOYLive sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd,And softly from a feeling heart and wise,Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd:Even the memory serves to wake my sighsWhen I recall that day so glad esteem'd,And in my heart its sinking spirit diesAs some late grace her colder wont redeem'd.My soul in pain and grief that most has been(How great the power of constant habit is!)Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean:For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope,Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.Macgregor.SONNET CCXXI
Cercato ho sempre solitaria vitaTHINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFTStill have I sought a life of solitude;The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind,Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find;And sing and weep in concert with its flood.But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,Compels my steps, where I with sorrow seeCast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.Nott.Still have I sought a life of solitude—This know the rivers, and each wood and plain—That I might 'scape the blind and sordid trainWho from the path have flown of peace and good:Could I my wish obtain, how vainly wouldThis cloudless climate woo me to remain;Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again,And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood.But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me,Compels me where I must, indignant, findAmid the mire my fairest treasure thrown:Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, sheNow proves herself, at least for once, more kind,Since—but alone to Love and Laura be it known.Macgregor.
SONNET CCXXII
In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidiTHE BEAUTY OF LAURA IS PEERLESSIn one fair star I saw two brilliant eyes,With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er,That soon those graceful nests of Love beforeMy worn heart learnt all others to despise:Equall'd not her whoever won the prizeIn ages gone on any foreign shore;Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty boreUnnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries:Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless bladePiercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fledDishonour worse than death, like charms display'd;Such excellence should brightest glory shedOn Nature, as on me supreme delight,But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.Macgregor.SONNET CCXXIII
Qual donna attende a gloriosa famaTHE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUEFeels any fair the glorious wish to gainOf sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?On those bright eyes attentive let her gazeOf her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe.Honour to gain, with love of God to glow,Virtue more bright how native grace displays,May there be learn'd; and by what surest waysTo heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.The converse sweet, beyond what poets write,Is there; the winning silence, and the meekAnd saint-like manners man would paint in vain.The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight,Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seekBy art, what by kind chance alone we gain.Anon., Ox., 1795.SONNET CCXXIV
Cara la vita, e dopo lei mi pareHONOUR TO BE PREFERRED TO LIFEMethinks that life in lovely woman first,And after life true honour should be dear;Nay, wanting honour—of all wants the worst—Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here.And who, alas! has honour's barrier burst,Unsex'd and dead, though fair she yet appear,Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst,A lingering death, where all is dark and drear.To me no marvel was Lucretia's end,Save that she needed, when that last disgraceAlone sufficed to kill, a sword to die.Sophists in vain the contrary defend:Their arguments are feeble all and base,And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!Macgregor.SONNET CCXXV
Arbor vittoriosa e trionfaleHE EXTOLS THE VIRTUE OF LAURATree, victory's bright guerdon, wont to crownHeroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf,How many days of mingled joy and griefHave I from thee through life's short passage known.Lady, who, reckless of the world's renown,Reapest in virtue's field fair honour's sheaf;Nor fear'st Love's limed snares, "that subtle thief,"While calm discretion on his wiles looks down.The pride of birth, with all that here we deemMost precious, gems and gold's resplendent grace.Abject alike in thy regard appear:Nay, even thine own unrivall'd beauties beamNo charm to thee—save as their circling blazeClasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold'st most dear.Wrangham.Blest laurel! fadeless and triumphant tree!Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride!How much of joy and sorrow's changing tideIn my short breath hath been awaked by thee!Lady, the will's sweet sovereign! thou canst seeNo bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside;Love's chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride;From man's deceit thy wisdom sets thee free.Birth's native pride, and treasure's precious store,(Whose bright possession we so fondly hail)To thee as burthens valueless appear:Thy beauty's excellence—(none viewed before)Thy soul had wearied—but thou lov'st the veil,That shrine of purity adorneth here.Wollaston.
