Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l'onde.
O bella man, che mi distringi 'l core.
Oimè il bel viso; oimè il soave sguardo.
Onde tolse Amor l'oro, e di qual vena.
Oo' è la fronte, che con picciol cenno.
Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra.
Perchè la vita è breve.
Perchè quel che mi trasse ad amar prima.
Perch' io t' abbia guardato di menzogna.
Per far una leggiadra sua vendetta.
Piangete, donne, e con voi pianga Amore.
Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano.
Pò, ben può tu portartene la scorza.
Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente.
Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l'Aurora.
Quando giunse a Simon l' alto concetto.
Quando 'l sol bagna in mar l' aurato carro.
Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra.
Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto.
Quel rosigniuol, che si soave piagne.
Quel vago impallidir, che 'l dolce riso.
Rapido fiume, che d' alpestra vena.
Rotta è l'alta Colonna, e 'l verde Lauro.
Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.
Se la mia vita dall' aspro tormento.
Se 'l pensier che mi strugge.
Sento l'aura mia antica; e i dolci colli.
Solo, e pensoso i più deserti campi.
Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostra.
Of the SONNETS, and ODES.
The Italick characters denote the Odes.
Ah me, that lovely look! that beauteous face.
Alas, with ardour past belief I glow.
All solitary, lost in thought, I stray
Although from falsehood I did thee restrain.
Asham'd sometimes thy beauties should remain.
A thousand times, sweet warriour, to obtain.
Beneath those very hills, where beauty threw.
Bright spirit, from those earthly bonds releas'd.
Count the ocean's finny droves.
Each creature, on whose wakeful eyes.
Fall'n that proud Column, fall'n that Laurel tree.
For many a crime at once to make me smart.
From time to time less cruelty I trace.
Gay joyous blooms, and herbage glad with show'rs.
Go, plaintive verse, to the dull marble go.
Graces, that lib'ral heav'n on few bestows.
Here tarry, Love, our glory to behold.
Her golden tresses on the wind she threw.
How often to my sweet retreat I haste.
I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spy.
If faith impassion'd, and a heart sincere.
If in sweet accent moans the plaintive bird.
Impetuous flood, that from the Alps' rude head.
Intemp'rance, slumber, and the slothful down.
Life flies apace, and tarries not an hour.
Love makes me as the target for his dart.
May fire from heav'n rain down upon thy head.
My fancy bore me to that region, where.
My life, sweet lady, could I but maintain.
My rival, in whose face you're wont to view.
My verdurous, and bloomy prime was past.
Ne'er did fond mother to her darling sou.
Nor beamy stars that climb the blue serene.
No wearied mariner to port e'er fled.
O beauteous hand, that dost my heart subdue.
Oft as her angel face compassion wore.
O Phoebus, if that fond desire remains.
O that my cheeks were taught.
O ye, who list in scatter'd verse the sound.
Say from what part of heav'n 'twas Nature drew.
Since human life is frail.
So often on the wings of thought I fly.
Still do I weep the days that are gone by.
Still have I sought a life of solitude.
Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way.
Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery.
That burning toil, in which I once was caught.
The birds' sweet wail, their renovated song.
The brightest eyes, the most resplendent face.
The chosen angels, and the spirits blest..
The gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue.
The gentle gale, that plays my face around.
The pallid tint of loveliness, which threw.
The pleasant gale, that to the sun unplaits.
Those eyes, of which my song so warmly told.
Thou, Death, has left this world's dark, cheerless way.
Thou gale, that movest, and disportest round.
Though cruelty denies my view.
Thou Love, who these soul-friending banks beside.
Thou Po to distant realms this frame mayst bear.
Thou vale, that with my plainings dost resound.
Throughout the orient now began to flame.
Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace.
Weep beauteous damsels, and let Cupid weep.
What dread I feel, when I revolve the day.
What envy do I bear thee, greedy clay.
What should I do; what, Love, dost thou advise.
What time towards the western skies.
Whence could Love take the gold, and from what vein.
When Egypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd head.
|