WHEREIN, THOUGH NOT INVULNERABLE, HE REFUSES TO FEEL FURTHER TORMENT OF LOVE

Till winter's silver frost my temples harrow,
Where shade by shade Time mixes gray with grayer,
Danger will dog me still, ah grim gainsayer,
So long as Love keeps finger upon arrow.
Let Love his tortures practice on a sparrow!
I do not dread that treacherous trick-player:
My heart will not fly open for the slayer
To plant his blood-red barbs deep in its marrow!
Mine eyes are stones through which tears cannot blunder,
Though well they know the way in, ah so well,

TO A FRIEND, WHEREIN, THOUGH WORN TO A SHADOW, THE POET PROTESTS LOVE'S SERVITUDE IS SWEET

Love, with his promises and flattery,
Seduced me back to the old prison cell,
And gave the keys to that dear sentinel
Who still divides my proper self from me.
Alas! I dreamed not of his subtlety
Until in Love's and Laura's hands I fell,
(Who will believe it, though I swear it well?)
Now heavy are the sighs that set me free.
And like a veritable captive smitten,
Of my harsh chains the greater part I carry,

WHEREIN HE CANNOT EVER WEARY HYMNING HER EYES

The brilliant eyes which struck me in such wise
That they alone can heal the wound they made,
Not virtuous herbs nor artful magic's aid,
Nor fabulous Mediterranean stone's device,
So blind to other Love by these same eyes,
One sweet thought only can my soul persuade,
From following which, if my tongue has not strayed,
Despise the thought, the tongue do not despise.
These are the lovely eyes which Love the Lord
On his invincible shield in every part
Bears valiantly, but most in my own heart;

WHEREIN, CROSSING FROM MARSEILLES TO ROME, THE POET PERCEIVES THAT THOUGH HE FLIES FROM LOVE, LOVE IS THE WINGS

Ah Love, when hath mere caution once availed
Against thy strength since man betrayed his trust!
The frequent snare, the oath that turns to dust
Give sharp proof how thy talons have not failed;
But lately, to my marvel, as I sailed
Between the Tuscan shore and Elba, thrust
Before mine eyes this miracle that must
Be told accused me and my spirit quailed:
I fled thine outstretched hand and as I fled,
A wanderer unknown, the roaring race

WHEREIN HE ENTREATS LOVE TO KINDLE IN LAURA'S BOSOM THE FIRE WHICH CEASELESSLY CONSUMES HIM

Alas! how little, in those first fierce days
When Love probed deep, was my heart known to me,
Where by degrees he gained the mastery
Of my whole life in many subtle ways:
I never thought that, with his yeas and nays,
This heart, hammered by time so terribly,
Could show such faintness, such infirmity,
And to its folly its poor pride abase.
From now on, all defence will come too late
Save this, such as it is, to prove my fate,

HAVING RECEIVED SOME FAVOUR, A GLANCE OR SALUTATION, HE TURNS HIS CURSES INTO BLESSINGS

Blest be the day, and blest the month and year,
Season and hour and very moment blest,
The lovely land and place where first possessed
By two pure eyes I found me prisoner;
And blest the first sweet pain, the first most dear,
Which burned my heart when Love came in as guest;
And blest the bow, the shafts which shook my breast,
And even the wounds which Love delivered there.
Blest be the words and voices which filled grove

WHEREIN HE DEPICTS THE MISERY OF PHoeBUS AT THE LOSS OF HIS LOVE

Nine times already had Latona's son
Gazed from the topmost balcony of heaven
For her who shook his breast with sighs; so even
This instant others are with sighs undone;
Then searching wearily, his great eyes run
Hither and thither for some sign or haven;
Ignorant where she lives, like a wild raven
He glared, grief-crazed, for his beloved one;
And so, the clouds of anguish intervening,
Saw not the sweet face turn, which, if I live,

WHEREIN HE PURSUES SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE SHADOWS HIM EVERYWHITHER

Alone, thought-sick, I pace where none has been,
Roaming the desert with dull steps and slow,
And still glance warily about to know
If the herd follows, if the world has seen:
How else the hoofprint of the Philistine
Escape, but in some cave with grief to go!
I look distraught and haggard: I must show
No one how keen Love's tooth is, O how keen!
Meseems the very mountains and the shores,
Rivers and woods must guess the secret I
So seek to hide from men by desert doors —

TO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE VERSES

If the proud branch, whose honoured leaf defies
The fury of Heaven when Jove thunders loud,
Had not prevented me from being proud
By keeping me uncrowned, my ardent eyes
Should bend with you in your idolatries,
To which our craven age has never bowed;
Alas, that laurelled injury has cowed
My spirit and forced me from the olive trees!
For Ethiopian earth beneath its sun
Never with such heat hissed, as burns my drouth
At loss of what I set my soul upon.

WHEREIN HE CHIDES LOVE THAT COULD WOUND HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD FRIDAY)

It was the morning of that blessed day
Whereon the Sun in pity veiled his glare
For the Lord's agony, that, unaware,
I fell a captive, Lady, to the sway
Of your swift eyes: that seemed no time to stay
The strokes of Love: I stepped into the snare
Secure, with no suspicion: then and there
I found my cue in man's most tragic play.
Love caught me naked to his shaft, his sheaf,
The entrance for his ambush and surprise
Against the heart wide open through the eyes,