Petrarch in English

by Thomas Roche (ed)

  When no man knoweth hys lyfe nor his death

  And this note onely as the sage man sayeth

  Doth not touche me but all that be alyue

  The fast course of the Sonne doth away dryue

  That plainly and manifestly the truth note I shal

  The ruyne of the worlde is knowen to vs all

  Then ye yonge men that be in your fresh lust

  100 Measure [the] tyme longe and put therto your trust

  Folyshly I say playnly why cal ye not to mynd

  Afore consydered hurte lesse hurteth by kynde

  Onles I blowe these wordes to you in vayne

  But I do tel you note it for truth and certayne

  ye that do not mynde, nor well remember this

  With a slepy lytargy your braynes combred is

  For the howres flyes a pace, so doth the dayes

  The monethes and the yeares, folowe alwayes

  Together in a breif shorte distaunce and tyme

  110 So that yf ye well and wysely note this ryme

  We must all mortall men to another countre pas

  And all our great glory shalbe turned to was

  Goo ye not then agayne the truth I do saye

  But amende your euyl lyues whyles that ye may

  Do not abyde tyll dreadfull death you take

  As the most part of [the] vnwytty doth I vndertake

  O that ye wyll not this well vnderstande

  Of fooles there is doubtles an infinite bande

  Sythens then I do knowe and playnly se

  120 This great planet howe fast it doth fle

  Which tyme when I myght, by folye I haue not taken

  But with muche great losse this tyme forsaken

  I sawe amonge these vnwyse foles all

  A nation that by theyr science lytle cared at all

  Nor feared not oft tyme the course rabidouse

  These I saye remoued and people most gloriouse

  Whiche hystorians hath taken in theyr garde

  And poetes also that wrote howe that they farde

  Of this it semed then the Sonne had enuye

  130 Whiche by them selfe so mounted [t]o hyghe glorye

  Passyng awaye from the madde vulgar quyte

  By the honorable vertuous wayes noble & right

  He hasted then this sonne a wonders spedy pas

  With moche more forse then euer there was

  And to his swyft horses he doubled the meate

  Passynge by the great beare this planet great

  So that the quene of whom I haue sayde

  Would haue departed from the sonne at [the] brayde

  I haue hard say, I wote not well of whome

  140 That euen as a wede wasteth our glory is goone

  And that all our fame is but blynde and derke

  And a perpetual forgetfulnes al our labor & werk

  And he sayd further that all the longe yeares

  And the processe also of the lusters and speares

  And of worldes infinite hereafter for to come

  Shall vanysh awaye our fame al and some

  Doubtles of as many it is playne euen so

  As are betwyxt these places Peneo and Hebro

  Or as far a sunder as that ryuer of [Z]anto

  150 Is distaunt by measure from the valey of Thebro

  And that oure glory is to be sayde by ryght

  Euen as we se the ayer fayre and bryght

  Made darke and hydde with a mysty cloude

  And breifly this alwayes note wel we should

  A hasty longe rynnyng awaye of the tyme

  Is a poyson to fame to cause it to declyne

  Our Tryumphs shal passe our pompes shal decay

  Our lordshyppes our kyngdomes shall all awaye

  And al thynge also that we accompt mortall

  160 Tyme at the length shal clene deface it al

  And to this those that are but meanly good

  They affirme and say playne [that] who so vnderstode

  Not onely our bodyes sone away doth passe

  But all our wyttes and eloquence in lyke case

  Thus not goyng but flying the world doth go

  Nor resysteth nor tarieth nor is it playne so

  Tyl he haue brought al false worldly luste

  To no better thynge but to bare ashes and duste

  Why than hath humayne glory so much hy pryde

  170 When that it is very playne sene on euery syde

  Although the vulgar doth not this thinge marke

  We shuld wel by ryght experie[n]ce know this wark

  That these foles do bable they wote not what

  If that the case were our short lyfe declyned not

  So sone nor so swyftly vnto the last ende

  Al the hye fame whereto that men pretende

  Euen as the smoke doth vanyshe awaye

  So at the last al thynges do playne decay

  This hearing me think it standes [with] good reason

  180 Not for to deny the truth at no season

  But to agre to that thynge we do wel know

  Euen by comparison as the sonne melteth [the] snow

  So doth the tyme put awaye and shall

  Not a thousande famouse but at the last them all

  Though that the moost part thynke it be not so

  O therfore I saye, howe blynde are they therto

  That thynke it muche better for to die in age

  Then lyinge in the cradle to go that passage

  To how many men had it ben far passing better?

  190 Yea: and I affyrme it a [thousand] tymes more sweter

  To haue dyed beyng yonge then to haue died old

  Many excellent clarckes doth it by reason holde

  That muche more fortunate the vnborne chylder be

  Then chyldren that be borne such payne to se

  But the great number hath alway greatest error

  If it were so certayne and thervnto so sure

  That after a longe lyfe shuld come a longe fame

  Who be they I pray you that wyll folow the same

  The couetous time turneth al thinge vp so doune

  200 And our great fame that doth so hyghly soune

  It is no nother to be named but a second death

  Nor stay is there none as the true truth sayth

  Thus tryumpheth tyme and hasteth so a pace

  That all our glory and fame it doth deface.

  The Triumph of Eternity

  ELIZABETH I (1533–1603)

  Queen Elizabeth is not so well known as a translator, but she turned her hand to Psalm 13, the second chorus from Seneca’s Hercules Oetaeus, some metres from Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, a long section of Horace’s Art of Poetry, Plutarch’s On Curiosity, as well as some original poems. In this translation, she attempts to keep the metre and rhyme of the original terza rima, and the lines have been arranged in triplets to indicate this fact. Text from Ruth Hughey (ed.), The Arundel Harington Manuscript of Tudor Poetry (1960), vol. 1.

  Triumphe Petrarcke (lines 1–88)

  Amazed to see, nought vnder heavens cope

  steddie and fast, thus to my self I spake

  Advise the well: on whome doth hang thie hope,

  On god (said I) that promyse never brake

  With those that trust in hym. But now I know

  how earst the fickle world abvsed me

  eke what I am and was, and now to goe

  or rather flye the nimble tyme I see

  Blame wold I, wist I whome: for all the cryme

  10 is myne that sholde (not slacking till the last)

  haue earst vnclosed myne eyes before this tyme

  for trouthe to say, olde waxe I all to fast

  But overlate godes grace came never yet

  in me also I trust there shall be wrought

  works wonderfull and strange by meanes of it.

  Theise sayed and answere made thus more I thought

  If none of all theise thinges
do stand in staye

  that heaven turnes and guydes, what end at last

  shall follow of their everturning swaye?

  Whyle deeper yet my searching mynd I cast

  20 a world all new even then it seemed me

  in never chaunging and ever lyving age

  the sonne, the skye with all her sterres to see

  dissolved quite with earth and Seas that rage

  one made more faire and pleasant in his place

  when hym that never stayed but earst to chaunge

  eache thing was wont wandring in divers race

  stand on one foote I saw: how seemed it straunge

  all his three partes, brought into onlye one

  and that one fast so that as wont it was

  30 no more so swifte it hasted to be gone

  but had one shew as earth disponed of grasse

  there were not shall be, hath bene, after earst

  to irkesome weake and divers state that brought

  our life. As Sonne dothe pearce the glasse so pearste

  my thought, yea more, for nothing stoppith thought

  What grace fynd I, to see if I attaine

  even face to face the greattest god of all

  (no ill whiche onlye tyme gieves and againe

  as first it came with tyme eke parte it shall

  40 the Bull or fishe lodge shall no more the Sonne

  whose chaunge dothe make a toyle now dye now springe

  now waste now growe. Oh happie spirites that wonne

  or shall hereafter stand in the chief ring

  wose names aye memorie writes in her booke

  Oh happie hee to fynde, whose happ shalbe

  the deepe Chanell of this swift ronning brooke

  whose name is life that manie wishe to see,

  wretched and blynd the common sort that stay

  50 their hope on things [which] tyme reaves in a trice

  all deaff, naked and subiect to decaye

  quite void of reason and of good advice

  and wretchid mortall men throughout diseas’d)

  whose beck doth guide the world by whome at iarre

  are sett the elements and eake appeased

  whose skill doth stretche beyond my reache so farr

  that even the Angells are content and ioye

  of thowsand partes but one to see, and bend

  their witts to this; and this wishe to enioye

  Oh happie wandring mynde; ay hungring to the end

  60 What meane so manie thoughts? one howre dothe reave

  that manye yeares gathered with moche a doe

  To morrow, yesterdaye, morning and eve,

  that presse our sowle and it encombre soe

  before hym passe shade like at ones awaye

  for was or shalbe no place shall be fownde

  but for the tyme of is, now, and todaye

  onlye eternitie knitt fast and sownde

  Huge hills shalbe made plaine, that stopped cleane

  70 our sight, ne shall there any thing remayne

  where on may hope or our remembrance leane

  whose chaunge make other doe that is but vaine

  and lif to seeme a sporte. Even with this thought

  what shall I be, what was I hearetofore

  all shall be one, ne peese meale parted ought

  Sommer shalbe, ne winter any more

  but tyme shall dye, and place be chang’d with all

  and yeares shall beare no rule on mortall fame

  but his renome for ever florishe shall

  80 that once atchiev’d to be of flowring name

  Oh happie soules that now the path dothe treade

  or henceforth shall when so it happs to be

  whiche, to the end whearof I speake doth leade

  of faire and wandring sprights yet happiest shee

  Whome deathe hath slayne farr shortt of natures bounde

  the heavenlye talke good words and thoughts so chaste

  Open shall lye vnfolded in that stounde

  Whiche kinde within a youthfull hart hath plaste:

  REVEREND HENRY BOYD (1748/9–1832)

  Boyd was a clergyman of the Church of Ireland and the first to translate Dante’s Divine Comedy into English (1802). His Trionfi appeared in 1807. Text from Bohn’s Illustrated Library (1859).

  The Triumph of Eternity

  When all beneath the ample cope of heaven

  I saw, like clouds before the tempest driven,

  In sad vicissitude’s eternal round,

  Awhile I stood in holy horror bound;

  And thus at last with self-exploring mind,

  Musing, I asked, ’What basis I could find

  To fix my trust?’ – An inward voice replied,

  ‘Trust to th’ Almighty: He thy steps shall guide;

  He never fails to hear the faithful prayer,

  10 But worldly hope must end in dark despair.’

  Now, what I am, and what I was, I know;

  I see the seasons in procession go

  With still increasing speed; while things to come,

  Unknown, unthought, amid the growing gloom

  Of long futurity, perplex my soul,

  While life is posting to its final goal.

  Mine is the crime, who ought with clearer light

  To watch the winged years’ incessant flight;

  And not to slumber on in dull delay

  20 Till circling seasons bring the doomful day.

  But grace is never slow in that, I trust,

  To wake the mind, before I sink to dust,

  With those strong energies that left the soul

  To scenes unhop’d, unthought, above the pole.

  While thus I ponder’d, soon my working thought

  Once more that ever-changing picture brought

  Of sublunary things before my view,

  And thus I question’d with myself anew: –

  ‘What is the end of this incessant flight

  30 Of life and death, alternate day and night?

  When will the motion on these orbs imprest

  Sink on the bosom of eternal rest?’

  At once, as if obsequious to my will,

  Another prospect shone, unmov’d and still;

  Eternal as the Heavens that glow’d above,

  A wide resplendent scene of light and love.

  The wheels of Phoebus from the Zodiac turn’d;

  No more the nightly constellations burn’d;

  Green earth and undulating Ocean roll’d

  40 Away, by some resistless power controll’d;

  Immensity conceiv’d, and brought to birth

  A grander firmament, and more luxuriant earth.

  What wonder seiz’d my soul when first I view’d

  How motionless the restless racer stood,

  Whose flying feet, with winged speed before,

  Still mark’d with sad mutation sea and shore.

  No more he sway’d the future and the past,

  But on the moveless present fixt at last;

  As at a goal reposing from his toils,

  50 Like earth uncloth’d of all its vernal foils.

  Unvaried scene! where neither change nor fate,

  Nor care nor sorrow, can our joys abate;

  Nor finds the light of thought resistance here,

  More than the sunbeams in a crystal sphere.

  But no material things can match their flight,

  In speed excelling far the race of light.

  Oh! what a glorious lot shall then be mine

  If Heaven to me these nameless joys assign!

  For there the sovereign good for ever reigns,

  60 Nor evil yet to come, nor present pains;

  No baleful birth of time its inmates fear,

  That comes, the burthen of the passing year;

  No solar chariot circles through the Signs,

  And now too near, and now too distant, shines;

  To wretched man and ea
rth’s devoted soil

  Dispensing sad variety of toil.

  Oh! happy are the blessed souls, that sing,

  Loud hallelujahs in eternal ring!

  Thrice happy he, who late, at last shall find

  70 A lot in the celestial climes assign’d!

  He, led by grace, th’ auspicious ford explores,

  Where, cross the plains, the wintry torrent roars;

  That troublous tide, where, with incessant strife,

  Weak mortals struggle through, and call it life.

  In love with Vanity, o doubly blind

  Are they that final consolation find

  In things that fleet on dissolution’s wing,

  Or dance away upon the transient ring

  Of seasons, as they roll. No sound they hear

  80 From that still voice that Wisdom’s sons revere;

  No vestment they procure to keep them warm

  Against the menace of the wintry storm;

  But all expos’d, in naked nature lie,

  A shivering crowd beneath the inclement sky,

  Of reason void, by every foe subdued,

  Self-ruin’d, self-depriv’d of sovereign good;

  Reckless of Him, whose universal sway,

  Matter, and all its various forms, obey;

  Whether they mix in elemental strife,

  90 Or meet in married calm, and foster life.

  His nature baffles all created mind,

  In earth or heaven, to fathom, or to find.

  One glimpse of glory on the saints bestow’d,

  With eager longings fills the courts of God

  For deeper views, in that abyss of light,

  While mortals slumber here, content with night:

  Though nought, we find, below the moon, can fill

  The boundless cravings of the human will.

  And yet, what fierce desire the fancy wings

  100 To gain a grasp of perishable things;

  Although one fleeting hour may scatter far

  The fruit of many a year’s corroding care;

  Those spacious regions where our fancies roam,

  Pain’d by the past, expecting ills to come,

  In some dread moment, by the Fates assign’d,

  Shall pass away, nor leave a rack behind;

  And Time’s revolving wheels shall lose at last

  The speed that spins the future and the past;

  And, sovereign of an undisputed throne,

  110 Awful eternity shall reign alone.

  Then every darksome veil shall fleet away

  That hides the prospects of eternal day:

  Those cloud-born objects of our hopes and fears,

  Whose air-drawn forms deluded memory bears