The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 44

THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVE.

If no love is, O G.o.d, what fele I so?

And if love is, what thing and which is he?

If love be G.o.de, from whence cometh my woe?

If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh me When every torment and adversite That cometh of him may to me savory thinke: For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke.

And if that at my owne l.u.s.t I brenne, From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte?

If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne?

I not nere why unwery that I feinte.

O quicke deth, O surele harme so quainte, How may I see in me such quant.i.te, But if that I consent that so it be?

CHAUCER.

If 'tis not love, what is it feel I then?

If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above!

If love be kind, why does it fatal prove?

If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain?

If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain?

If not my will, tears cannot love remove.

O living death! O rapturous pang!--why, love!

If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign?

If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn: Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borne By adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost; Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze, My blind opinion ever dubious strays; I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CIII.

_Amor m' ha posto come segno a strale._

LOVE'S ARMOURY.

Love makes me as the target for his dart, As snow in sunshine, or as wax in flame, Or gale-driven cloud; and, Laura, on thy name I call, but thou no pity wilt impart.

Thy radiant eyes first caused my bosom's smart; No time, no place can shield me from their beam; From thee (but, ah, thou treat'st it as a dream!) Proceed the torments of my suff'ring heart.

Each thought's an arrow, and thy face a sun, My pa.s.sion's flame: and these doth Love employ To wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy.

Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I'm won, All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul, Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.

NOTT.

Me Love has placed as mark before the dart, As to the sun the snow, as wax to fire, As clouds to wind: Lady, e'en now I tire, Craving the mercy which never warms thy heart.

From those bright eyes was aim'd the mortal blow, 'Gainst which nor time nor place avail'd me aught; From thee alone--nor let it strange be thought-- The sun, the fire, the wind whence I am so.

The darts are thoughts of thee, thy face the sun, The fire my pa.s.sion; such the weapons be With which at will Love dazzles yet destroys.

Thy fragrant breath and angel voice--which won My heart that from its thrall shall ne'er be free-- The wind which vapour-like my frail life flies.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CIV.

_Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra._

LOVE'S INCONSISTENCY.

I fynde no peace and all my warre is done, I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse; I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse; And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season, That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson, And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse.

Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce, And yet of death it giveth none occasion.

Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne; I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health; I love another, and yet I hate my self; I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne, Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf, And my delight is cawser of my greif.

WYATT.[S]

[Footnote S: Harrington's Nugae Antiquae.]

Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace; I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again; Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face; Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain.

His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain; In toils he holds me not, nor will release; He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain; Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease.

Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn; I scorn existence, and yet court its stay; Detest myself, and for another burn; By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay; Death I despise, and life alike I hate: Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!

NOTT.

CANZONE XVIII.

_Qual piu diversa e nova._

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATION.

Whate'er most wild and new Was ever found in any foreign land, If viewed and valued true, Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand.

Whence the bright day breaks through, Alone and consortless, a bird there flies, Who voluntary dies, To live again regenerate and entire: So ever my desire, Alone, itself repairs, and on the crest Of its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun, There melts and is undone, And sinking to its first state of unrest, So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes, And, Phoenix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms.

Where Indian billows sweep, A wondrous stone there is, before whose strength Stout navies, weak to keep Their binding iron, sink engulf'd at length: So prove I, in this deep Of bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride, That fair rock knew to guide Where now my life in wreck and ruin drives: Thus too the soul deprives, By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was, It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed: For mine, O fate accurst!

A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws, Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet, Drags to the fatal sh.o.r.e a certain doom to meet.

Neath the far Ethiop skies A beast is found, most mild and meek of air, Which seems, yet in her eyes Danger and dool and death she still does bear: Much needs he to be wise To look on hers whoever turns his mien: Although her eyes unseen, All else securely may be viewed at will But I to mine own ill Run ever in rash grief, though well I know My sufferings past and future, still my mind Its eager, deaf and blind Desire o'ermasters and unhinges so, That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face, Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace.

In the rich South there flows A fountain from the sun its name that wins, This marvel still that shows, Boiling at night, but chill when day begins; Cold, yet more cold it grows As the sun's mounting car we nearer see: So happens it with me (Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat), When the bright light and sweet, My only sun retires, and lone and drear My eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign, I burn, but if again The gold rays of the living sun appear, My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange; Within me and without I feel the frozen change!

Another fount of fame Springs in Epirus, which, as bards have told, Kindles the lurking flame, And the live quenches, while itself is cold.

My soul, that, uncontroll'd, And scathless from love's fire till now had pa.s.s'd, Carelessly left at last Near the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh, Was kindled instantly: Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night, A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.