Petrarch in English

by Thomas Roche (ed)

  Did neere unto the uttmost instant goe,

  And doubtfull stepp, at which the world doeth quake.

  An other number then themselves did shewe

  Of Ladies, such as bodies yett did lade,

  If death could pitious be, they faine would knowe.

  And deepe they did in contemplacion wade

  110 Of that colde end, presented there to view,

  Which must be once, and must but once be made.

  All friends and neighbors were this carefull crue

  But death with ruthlesse hand on golden haire

  Chosen from out those amber-tresses drewe.

  So cropt the flower, of all this world most faire,

  To shewe upon the excellentest thing

  Hir supreame force, And for no hate she bare.

  How manie dropps did flowe from brynie spring

  In who there sawe those sightfull fountaines drye,

  120 For whom this heart so long did burne and [sing].

  For hir in midst of moane and miserie,

  Now reaping once what vertues life did sowe,

  With ioye she sate retired silentlie.

  In peace cryde they, right mortall Goddesse goe,

  And soe she was but that in noe degree

  Could death entreate, hir comming to forslowe.

  What confidence for others? if that she

  Could frye and freese in few nights changing cheere:

  Oh humane hopes, how fond and false yow bee.

  130 And for this gentle Soule, if manie a teare

  By pittie shed, did bathe the ground and grasse,

  Who sawe doeth knowe; think thow, that doest but heare.

  The sixt of Aprill, one a clock it was

  That tyde me once, and did me nowe untye,

  Changing hir copie: Thus doeth fortune passe.

  None so his thralle, as I my libertie;

  None so his death, as I my life doe rue,

  Staying with me, who faine from it would flye.

  Due to the world, and to my yeares was due,

  140 That I, as first I came, should first be gonne,

  Not hir leafe quail’d, as yett but freshlie newe.

  Now for my woe, guesse not by’t, what is showne.

  For I dare scarce once cast a thought there too,

  So farre I am of, in words to make it knowne.

  Vertue is dead; and dead is beawtie too.

  And dead is curtesie, in mournefull plight.

  The ladies saide: And now, what shall we doe?

  Neuer again such grace shall blesse our sight

  Neuer like witt shall we from woman heare.

  150 And voice repleate with Angell-lyke delight.

  The Soule now prest to leave that bosome deare

  Hir vertues all uniting now in one,

  There where it past did make the heauens cleare.

  And of the enemies so hardlie none,

  That once before hir shew’d his face obscure

  With hir assault, till death had thorough gonne.

  Past plaint and feare when first they could endure

  To hould their eyes on that faire visage bent,

  And that dispaire had made them now secure.

  160 Not as great fyers violently spent,

  But in them-selues consuming, so hir flight

  Tooke that sweete spright, and past in peace content,

  Right lyke unto som lamp of cleerest light,

  Little and little wanting nutriture.

  Houlding to end a neuer-changing plight

  Pale? No: but whitelie: and more whitelie pure,

  Then snow on wyndless hill, that flaking falles:

  As one, whom labor did to rest allure.

  And when that heauenlie guest those mortall walles

  170 Had leaft; it nought but sweetelie sleeping was

  In hir faire eyes: what follie dying calles

  Death faire did seeme to be in hir faire face.

  The second chapter of the Triumph of death

  That night which did the dreadfull happ ensue

  That quite eclips’t; naie rather did replace

  The sunne in skies, and me bereave of view.

  Did sweetelie sprinkle through the ayrie space

  The Summers frost, which with Tithon’s bryde

  Cleareth of dreame the darke-confused face

  When loe, a Ladie, lyke unto the tyde

  With Orient iewells crown’d from thousands moe

  Crowned as she: to me I coming spyde;

  10 And first hir hand somtime desyred so

  Reaching to me, at once she sygh’t and spake:

  Whence endlesse ioyes yett in my heart doe growe.

  And know’st thow hir, who made thee first forsake

  The vulgar path, and ordinarie trade?

  While hir, their marke, thy youthfull thoughts did make?

  Then doune she sate, and me sitt-doune she made,

  Thought, wisedom, Meekenesse in one grace did striue

  [On pleasing] bank in bay, and beeches shade

  My Goddesse, who me did and doeth reuiue,

  20 Can I but knowe? (I sobbing answered)

  But art thow dead? Ah speake or yett aliue?

  Aliue am I: And thow as yett are dead,

  And as thow art shalt soe continue still

  Till by thy ending hower, thow hence be led.

  Short is our time to liue, and long our will:

  Then lett with heede, thy deedes, and speaches goe.

  Ere that approaching terme his course fullfill.

  Quoth I, when this our light to end doth growe,

  Which we calle life (for thow by proofe hast tryde)

  30 Is it such payne to dye? That, make me knowe.

  While thow (quoth she) the vulgar make thy guide,

  And on their iudgements (all obscurelie blynde)

  Doest yett relye: no bliss can thee betyde.

  Of lothesom prison to eache gentle mynde

  Death is the end: And onelie who employe

  Their cares on mudd, therin displeasure finde.

  Even this my death, which yealds thee such annoye

  Would make in thee farre greater gladnesse ryse

  Couldst thou but taste least portion of my ioye.

  40 So spake she with devoutlie-fixed eyes

  Upon the Heauens; then did in silence foulde

  Those rosie lips, attending there replyes:

  Torments, invented by the Tyrranes olde:

  Diseases, which each parte torment and tosse

  Causes that death we most bitter houlde,

  I not denye (quoth she) but that the crosse

  Preceeding death, extreemelie martireth,

  And more the feare of that eternall losse.

  But when the panting soule in God takes breath;

  50 And wearie heart affecteth heauenlie rest,

  An unrepented syghe, not els, is death.

  With bodie, but with spirit readie prest,

  Now at the furthest of my liuing wayes.

  There sadlie uttered sounds my eare possest.

  Oh happless he; who counting times and dayes

  Thinks each a thousand yeares, and liues in vayne

  No more to meete hir while on earth he stayes.

  And on the water now, now on the Maine

  Onelie on hir doeth think, doeth speake, doeth write

  60 And in all times one manner still retaine.

  Heere-with, I thither cast my failing-sight,

  And soone espyde, presented to my view,

  Who oft did thee restraining, me encyte.

  Well, I hir face, and well hir voice I knewe,

  Which often did my heart reconsolate;

  Now wiselie graue, then beawtifulie true.

  And sure, when I, was in my fairest state,

  My yeares most greene, myself to thee most deare,

  Whence manie much did think, and much debate.

  70 That life’s best ioye was all
most bitter cheere,

  Compared to that death, most myldelie sweete,

  Which coms to men, but coms not euerie-where.

  For I, that iournie past with gladder feete,

  Then he from hard exile, that homeward goes.

  (But onelie ruth of thee) without regreete.

  For that faith’s sake, time once enough did shewe,

  Yett now to thee more manifestlie plaine,

  In face of him, who all doeth see and knowe,

  Saie Ladie, did you euer entretaine

  80 Motion or thought more louinglie to me

  (Not louing honor’s-height) my tedious paine?

  For those sweete wraths, those sweete disdaines in yow

  In those sweete peaces written in your eye

  Diverslie manie yeares my fanzies drewe.

  Scarce had I spoken but in lightning wise

  Beaming I saw that gentle smile appeare,

  Sometimes the sunne of my woe-darkned skyes.

  Then sighing thus she answered: Neuer were

  Our hearts but one, nor neuer two shall be:

  90 Onelie thy flame I tempred with my cheere:

  This onlie way could saue both thee and me:

  Our tender fame did this supporte require,

  The mother hath a rodd, yett kinde is she.

  How oft saide this my thoughts: In loue, naie fire

  Is he: Now to prouide must I beginne,

  And ill prouiders are feare and desire.

  Thow sawe’st what was without, not what within,

  And as the brake the wanton steede doeth tame,

  So this did thee from thy disorders winne.

  100 A thousand times wrath in my face did flame.

  My heart meane-while with loue did inlie burne,

  But neuer will; my reason overcame.

  For, if woe-vanquisht once, I sawe thee mourne;

  Thy life, or honor, ioyntlie to preserve

  Myne eyes to thee sweetelie did I turne.

  But if thy passions did from reason [swarue],

  Feare in my words, and sorrowe in my face

  Did then to thee for salutation serve.

  Their artes I us’d with thee: thow ran’st this race

  110 With kinde acceptance; now sharp disdaine

  Thow know’st, and hast it sung in manie a place.

  Sometimes thine eyes pregnant with tearie rayne

  I sawe, and at the sight: Behould he dyes:

  But if I help, saide I, the signes are plaine.

  Vertue for ayde, did then with loue aduise:

  If spurr’d by [loue], thow took’st som running toye,

  So soft a bitt (quoth I) will not suffice.

  Thus glad, and sad, in pleasure, and annoye:

  What red, cold, pale: thus farre I have thee brought

  120 Wearie but safe to my no little ioye.

  Then I with teares, and trembling; what it sought

  My faith hath found, whose more then equall neede

  Were this; if this, for truth could passe my thought.

  Of little faith (quoth she) should this proceede;

  If false it were, or if unknowne from me:

  The flames withall seem’d in hir face to breede.

  If lyking in myne eyes the world did see

  I saie not, now, of this, right faine I am,

  Those cheines that tyde my heart well lyked me,

  130 And well me lykes (if true it be) my flame,

  Which farre and neere by thee related goes,

  Nor in thy loue could ought but measure blame.

  That onelie fail’d; and while in acted woes

  Thow needes wouldst shewe, what I could not but see

  Thow didst thy heart to all the world disclose.

  Hence sprang my zeale, which yett distempreth thee,

  Our concorde such in euerie thing beside,

  As when united loue and vertue be.

  In equale flames our louing hearts were tryde,

  140 At leaste when once thy loue had notice gott,

  But one to shewe, the other sought to hyde.

  Thow didst for mercie calle with wearie throte

  In feare and shame, I did in silence goe,

  So much desire became of little note.

  But not the lesse becoms concealed woe,

  Nor greater growes it uttèred, then before,

  Through fiction, Truth will neither ebbe nor flowe.

  But clear’d I not the darkest mists of yore?

  When I thy words alone did entretaine

  150 Singing for thee? my loue dares speake no more.

  With thee my heart, to me I did restraine

  Myne eyes: and thow thy share canst hardlie brooke

  Leesing by me the lesse, the more to gayne.

  Not thinking if a thousand times I tooke

  Myne eyes from thee; I manie thousands cast

  Myne eyes on thee; and still with pittying looke.

  Whose shine no cloud had euer ouer-cast:

  Had I not fear’d in thee those coles to fyres

  I thought would burne too-dangerouslie fast.

  160 But to content thee more, ere I retyre

  For end of this, I somthing wilt thee tell,

  Perchance agreable to thy desire:

  In all things fullie blest, and pleased well,

  Onelie in this I did myself displease:

  Borne in too-base a toune for me to dwell:

  And much I grieved, that for thy greater ease,

  At leaste, it stood not neere thy flowrie nest.

  Els farre-enough, from whence I did thee please.

  So might the heart on which I onelie rest

  170 Not knowing me, haue fitt it-self elswhere,

  And I lesse name, lesse notice haue possest.

  Oh no (quoth I) for me, the heauens third spheare

  To so high loue advanc’t by speciall grace,

  Changelesse to me though chang’d thy dwelling were.

  Be as it will, yett my great Honor was,

  And is as yett (she saide) but thy delight

  Makes thee not mark how fast the howers doe passe.

  She from hir golden bed aurora bright

  To mortall eyes returning Sunne and daye

  180 Breast-high aboue the Ocean bare to sight.

  Shee to my sorrowe, calles me hence awaie,

  Therfore thy words in times short limits binde,

  And saie in-brief, if more thow haue to saie.

  Ladie, (quoth I) your words most sweetlie kinde

  Have easie made what euer erst I bare,

  But what is left of yow to Hue behinde.

  Therfore to knowe this, my onelie care,

  If sloe or swift shall com our meeting-daye.

  She parting saide, As my coniectures are

  190 Thow without me long time on earth shalt staie.

  Marie Sydney Countesse of Pembrooke

  BARBARINA OGLE BRAND, LADY DACRE (1768–1854)

  Lady Dacre was a poet and dramatist as well as ardent Petrarchist. Her Dramas, Translations and Occasional Poems appeared in two volumes in 1821, but some of them also appeared in an appendix to Ugo Foscolo’s Essays on Petrarch (1821, 1823), which Foscolo dedicated to her (Watson, English Petrarchans, pp. 8–9). This fragment is taken from Bohn’s Illustrated Library (1859).

  The Triumph of Death (line 103 to the end)

  And now closed in the last hour’s narrow span

  Of that so glorious and so brief career,

  Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!

  And a fair troop of ladies gather’d there,

  Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown’d

  To mark if ever Death remorsefull were.

  This gentle company thus throng’d around,

  110 In her contemplating the awful end

  All once must make, by law of nature bound:

  Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.

  Then Death stretch’d forth his hand, i
n that dread hour,

  From her bright head a golden hair to rend,

  Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower:

  Nor hate impell’d the deed, but pride, to dare

  Assert o’er highest excellence his power.

  What tearful lamentations fill the air

  The while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,

  120 Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!

  And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,

  She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,

  Gathering already virtue’s guerdon high.

  ‘Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure!’

  They said; and such she was: although it nought

  ’Gainst mightier Death avail’d, so stern – so sure!

  Alas for others! if a few nights wrought

  In her each change of suffering dust below!

  Oh! Hope, how false! How blind all human thought!

  130 Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woe

  For the bright spirit that had pass’d away,

  Think, ye who listen! They who witness’d know.

  ’Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,

  That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:

  How Fortune doth her fickleness display!

  None ever grieved for loss of liberty

  Or doom of death as I for freedom grieve,

  And life prolong’d, who only ask to die.

  Due to the world it had been her to leave,

  140 And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,

  Nor of its pride and bost the age bereave.

  How great the grief it is not mine to show

  Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,

  Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.

  Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!

  The sorrowing dames her honour’d couch around

  ‘For what are we reserved?’ in anguish cry;

  ‘Where now in women will all grace be found?

  Who with her wise and gentle words be blest,

  150 And drink of her sweet song th’ angelic sound?’

  The spirit parting from that beauteous breast,

  In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,

  Had with serenity the heavens imprest:

  No power of darkness, with ill influence, dared

  Within a space so holy to intrude,

  Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.

  Then hush’d was all lament, all fear subdued;

  Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,

  And from despair was arm’d with fortitude.

  160 As a pure flame that not by force is spent,

  But faint and fainter softly dies away,

  Pass’d gently forth in peace the soul content: