Petrarch in English

by Thomas Roche (ed)

  P23: Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade

  185. The louer here telleth of his diuers ioyes and aduersities in loue and lastly of his ladies death

  Sythe singyng gladdeth oft the hartes

  Of them that fele the panges of loue:

  And for the while doth ease their smartes:

  My self I shall the same way proue.

  And though that loue hath smit the stroke,

  Wherby is lost my libertie:

  Which by no meanes I may reuoke:

  Yet shall I sing, how pleasantly.

  Ny twenty yeres of youth I past:

  10 Which all in libertie I spent:

  And so from fyrst vnto the last,

  Er aught I knew, what louing ment.

  And after shall I syng the wo,

  The payne, the greefe, the deadly smart:

  When loue this lyfe did ouerthrowe,

  That hydden lyes within my hart.

  And then, the ioyes, that I did feele.

  When fortune lifted after this,

  And set me hye vpon her whele:

  20 And changed my wo to pleasant blisse,

  And so the sodeyn fall agayne

  From all the ioyes, that I was in.

  All you, that list to heare of payne,

  Geue care, for now I doe beginne.

  Lo, fyrst of all, when loue began

  With hote desyres my heart to burne:

  Me thought, his might auailde not than

  From libertie my heart to turne.

  For I was free: and dyd not knowe,

  30 How much his might mannes hert may greue.

  I had profest to be his fo:

  His law I thought not to beleue.

  I went vntyed in lusty leas,

  I had my wish alwayes at will:

  Ther was no wo, might me displease:

  Of pleasant ioyes I had my fill.

  No paynfull thought dyd passe my hart:

  I spilt no teare to wet my brest:

  I knew no sorrow, sigh, nor smart.

  40 My greatest grefe was quyet rest.

  I brake no slepe, I tossed not:

  Nor dyd delyte to syt alone.

  I felt no change of colde, and hote:

  Nor nought a nightes could make me mone.

  For all was ioy that I did fele:

  And of voide wandering I was free.

  I had no clogge tied at my hele:

  This was my life at libertie.

  That yet me thinkes it is a blisse,

  50 To thinke vpon that pleasure past.

  But forthwithall I finde the misse,

  For that it might no lenger last.

  Those dayes I spent at my desire,

  Without wo or aduersitie:

  Till that my hart was set a fire,

  With loue, with wrath, and ielousie.

  For on a day (alas the while)

  Lo, hear my harme how it began:

  The blinded Lord, the God of guile

  60 Had list to end my fredome than.

  And through mine eye into my hart,

  All sodenly I felt it glide.

  He shot his sharped fiery dart,

  So hard, that yet vnder my side

  The head (alas) dothe still remaine,

  And yet since could I neuer know,

  The way to wring it out againe:

  Yet was it nye three yere ago.

  This soden stroke make me agaist:

  70 And it began to vexe me sore.

  But yet I thought, it would haue past,

  As other such had done before.

  But it did not that (wo is me)

  So depe imprinted in my thought,

  The stroke abode: that yet I see,

  Me thynkes my harme how it was wrought.

  Kinde taught me streight that this was loue

  And I perceiued it perfectlye.

  Yet thought I thus: Nought shall me moue:

  80 I will not thrall my libertie.

  And diuers waies I did assay,

  By flight, by force, by frend, by fo,

  This fyrye thought to put away.

  I was so lothe for to forgo

  My libertie: that me was leuer,

  Then bondage was, where I heard saie:

  Who once was bounde, was sure neuer

  Without great paine to scape away.

  But what for that, there is no choyce,

  90 For my mishap was shapen so:

  That those my dayes that did reioyce,

  Should turne my blisse to bitter wo.

  For with that stroke my blisse toke ende.

  In stede wherof forthwith I caught,

  Hotte burnyng sighes, that sins haue brend,

  My wretched hart almost to naught.

  And sins that day, O Lord my life,

  The misery that it hath felt.

  That nought hath had, but wo and strife,

  100 And hotte desires my hart to melt.

  O Lord how sodain was the change

  From such a pleasant liberty?

  The very thraldome semed strange:

  But yet there was not remedy.

  But I must yeld, and geue vp all,

  And make my guide my chiefest fo.

  And in this wise became I thrall.

  Lo loue and happe would haue it so.

  I suffred wrong and helde my peace,

  110 I gaue my teares good leaue to ronne:

  And neuer would seke for redresse,

  But hopt to liueas I begonne.

  For what it was that might me ease,

  He liued not that might it know.

  Thus dranke I all mine owne disease:

  And all alone bewailde my wo.

  There was no sight that might mee please,

  I fled from them that did reioyce.

  And oft alone my hart to ease,

  120 I would bewayle with wofull voyce

  My life, my state, my miserie,

  And curse my selfe and all my dayes.

  Thus wrought I with my fantasie,

  And sought my helpe none other waies.

  Saue sometime to my selfe alone,

  When farre of was my helpe God wot:

  Lowde would I cry: My life is gone,

  My dere, if that ye helpe me not.

  Then wisht I streight, that death might end

  130 These bitter panges, and all this grief.

  For nought, methought, might it amend.

  Thus in dispaire to haue relief,

  I lingred forth: tyll I was brought

  With pining in so piteous case:

  That all, that saw me, sayd, methought:

  Lo, death is painted in his face.

  I went no where: but by the way

  I saw some sight before mine eyes:

  That made me sigh, and oft times say:

  140 My life, alas I thee despyse.

  This lasted well a yere, and more:

  Which no wight knew, but onely I:

  So that my life was nere forlore:

  And I dispaired vtterly.

  Tyll on a day, as fortune would:

  (For that, that shalbe, nedes must fall)

  I sat me down, as though I should

  Haue ended then my lyfe, and all.

  And as I sat to wryte my plaint,

  150 Meaning to shew my great vnrest:

  With quaking hand, and hart full faint,

  Amid my plaintes, among the rest,

  I wrote with ynk, and bitter teares:

  I am not myne, I am not mine:

  Behold my lyfe, away that weares:

  And if I dye the losse is thyne.

  Herewith a litle hope I caught:

  That for a whyle my life did stay.

  But in effect, all was for naught.

  160 Thus liued I styll: tyll on a day,

  As I sat staring on those eyes:

  I meane, those eyes, that first me bound:

  My inward thought tho cryed: Aryse:

  Lo,
mercy where it may be found.

  And therewithall I drew me nere:

  With feble hart, and at a braide,

  (But it was softly in her eare)

  Mercy Madame, was all, I sayd.

  But wo was me, when it was tolde.

  170 For therewithall fainted my breath.

  And I sate still for to beholde,

  And here the iudgement of my death.

  But Loue nor hap would not consent,

  To end me then, but welaway:

  There gaue me blisse: that I repent

  To thinke I Hue to see this day.

  For after this I playned still

  So long, and in so piteous wise:

  That I my wish had at my will

  180 Graunted, as I would it deuise.

  But Lord who euer heard, or knew

  Of halfe the ioye that I felt than?

  Or who can thinke it may be true,

  That so much blisse had euer man?

  Lo, fortune thus set me aloft:

  And more my sorowes to releue,

  Of pleasant ioyes I tasted oft:

  As much as Loue or happe might geue.

  The sorrowes olde, I felt before

  190 About my hart, were driuen thence:

  And for eche greefe, I felt afore,

  I had a blisse in recompence.

  Then thought I all the time well spent:

  That I in plaint had spent so long.

  So was I with my life content:

  That to my self I sayd among.

  Sins thou art ridde of all thine yll:

  To showe thy ioyes set forth thy voyce.

  And sins thou hast thy wish at will:

  200 My happy hart, reioyce, reioyce.

  Thus felt I ioyes a great deale mo,

  Then by my song may well be tolde:

  And thinkyng on my passed wo,

  my blisse did double many folde.

  And thus I thought with mannes blood,

  Such blisse might not be bought to deare.

  In such estate my ioyes then strode:

  That of a change I had no feare.

  But why sing I so long of blisse?

  210 It lasteth not, that will away,

  Let me therefore bewaile the misse:

  And sing the cause of my decay.

  Yet all this while there liued none,

  That led his life more pleasantly:

  Nor vnder hap there was not one,

  Me thought, so well at ease, as I.

  But O blinde ioye, who may thee trust?

  For no estate thou canst assure?

  Thy faithfull vowes proue all vniust:

  220 Thy faire behestes be full vnsure.

  Good proufe by me: that but of late

  Not fully twenty dayes ago:

  Which thought my life was in such state:

  That nought might worke my hart this wo.

  Yet hath the enemy of my ease,

  Mishappe I meane, that wretched wight:

  now when my life did moste me please:

  Deuised me such cruel spight.

  That from the hiest place of all,

  230 As to the pleasying of my thought,

  Downe to the deepest am I fall,

  And to my helpe auaileth nought,

  Lo, thus are all my ioyes gone:

  And I am brought from happinesse,

  Continually to waile, and mone.

  Lo, such is fortunes stablenesse.

  In welth I thought such suretie,

  That pleasure should haue ended neuer.

  But now (alas) aduersitie,

  240 Doth make my singyng cease for euer.

  O brittle ioye, o slidying blisse,

  O fraile pleasure, o welth vnstable:

  Who feles thee most, he shall not misse

  At length to be make miserable.

  For all must end as doth my blisse:

  May well away with wretchednesse

  But he shall finde that hath it sayd,

  A paine to part from pleasantnesse:

  As I doe now, for er I knew

  250 What pleasure was: I felt no griefe,

  Like vnto this, and it is true,

  That blisse hath brought me all this mischiefe.

  But yet I haue not songen, how

  This mischief came: but I intend

  With woftill voice to sing it now:

  And therewithall I make an end.

  But Lord, now that it is begoon,

  I feele, my sprites are vexed sore.

  Oh, geue me breath till this be done:

  260 And after let me liue no more,

  Alas, the enmy of my life,

  The ender of all pleasantnesse:

  Alas, he bringeth all this strife,

  And causeth all this wretchednesse.

  For in the middes of all the welth,

  That brought my hart to happinesse

  This wicked death he came by stelthe,

  And robde me of my ioyfulnesse.

  He came, when that I little thought

  270 Of ought, that might me vexe so sore:

  And sodenly he brought to nought

  My pleasantriesse for euermore,

  He slew my ioye (alas, the wretch)

  He slew my ioye, or I was ware:

  And now (alas) no might may stretch

  To set an end to my great care.

  For by this cursed deadly stroke,

  My blisse is lost, and I forlore:

  And no help may the losse reuoke:

  280 For lost it is for euermore.

  And closed vp are those faire eyes,

  That gaue me first the signe of grace:

  My faire swete foes, myne enemies,

  And earth dothe hide her pleasant face.

  The loke which did my life vpholde:

  And all my sorowes did confounde:

  With which more blisse then may be tolde:

  Alas, now lieth it vnder ground.

  But cease, for I will syng no more:

  290 Since that my harme hath no redresse:

  But as a wretche for euermore,

  My life will waste with wretchednesse.

  And ending thys my wofull song,

  Now that it ended is and past:

  I wold my life were but as long:

  And that this work might be my last.

  For lothsome is that life (men saye)

  That liketh not the liuers minde:

  Lo, thus I seke myne owne decaye,

  300 And will, till that I may it finde.

  P1:Voich’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono

  276. The louer asketh pardon of his passed follie in loue

  You that in play peruse my plaint, and reade in rime the smart,

  Which in my youth with sighes full cold I harbourd in my hart.

  Know ye that Loue in that fraile age, draue me to that distresse,

  When I was halfe an other man, then I am now to gesse.

  Then for this worke of wauering words where I now rage

  Tost in the toyes of troublous Loue, as care of comfort grew.

  I trust with you that loues affaires by proofe haue put in vre:

  Not onely pardon in my plaint, but pitie to procure.

  For now I wot that in the world a wonder haue I be,

  10 And where to log Loue made me blind, to late shame makes me se.

  Thus of my fault shame is the fruite, and for my youth thus past,

  Repentance is my recompence, and this I learne at last.

  Looke what the world hath most in price, as sure it is to kepe,

  As is the dreame which fansie driues, while sence and reason slepe.

  P3: Era il giorno ch’al sol si scoloraro

  277. The louer sheweth that he was striken by loue on good Friday

  It was the day on which the sunne depriued of his light,

  To rew Christs death amid his course gaue place vnto y night

  When I amid mine ease did fall to such distemperate f
its,

  That for the face that hath my hart I was bereft my wits.

  I had the bayte, the hooke and all, and wist not loues pretence,

  But farde as one that fearde none yll, nor forst for no defence.

  Thus dwelling in most quiet state, I fell into this plight,

  And that day gan my secret sighes, when all folke wept in sight.

  For Loue that vewed me moide of care, approcht to take his pray,

  10 And stept by stelth from eye to hart, so open lay the way.

  And straight at eyes brake out in teares, so salt that did declare,

  By token of their bitter taste that they were forgde of care.

  Now vaunt thee Loue which fleest a maid defenst [with] vertues rare,

  And wounded has a wight vnwise, vnweaponed and vnware.

  EDMUND SPENSER (1554?–99)

  Spenser could only have been in his middle to late teens at the Merchant Taylors’ School when (as the story goes) Richard Mulcaster, his headmaster, conveyed these translations of P323 to the London publisher, John Day, to be used in his edition of Jan van der Noot’s A Theatre wherein be represented as wel the miseries & calamities that follow the voluptuous Worldlings… (1569), a work Day had previously published in Dutch and French in 1568. That Petrarch’s superbly emblematic love poem should have become a vehicle for a Protestant polemic is a story that perhaps only St Augustine could have told. Spenser later converted these Epigrams into sonnets, which he published as The Vision of Petrarch in his Complaints volume of 1591. Text from A Theatre for Worldlings.

  P323: Standomi un giorno solo a la fenestra

  Epigrams

  1.

  Being one day at my window all alone,

  So many strange things hapned me to see,

  As much it grieueth me to thinke thereon.

  At my right hande, a Hinde appearde to me,

  So faire as mought the greatest God delite:

  Two egre Dogs dyd hir pursue in chace,

  Of whiche the one was black, the other white.

  With deadly force so in their cruell race

  They pinchte the haunches of this gentle beast,

  10 That at the last, and in shorte time, I spied,

  Vnder a rocke, where she (alas) opprest,

  Fell to the grounde, and there vntimely dide.

  Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie,

  Oft makes me waile so harde a destinie.

  2.

  After at Sea a tall Ship dyd appere,

  Made all of Heben and white Iuorie,

  The sailes of Golde, of Silke the tackle were:

  Milde was the winde, calme seemed the sea to be:

  The Skie eche where did shew full bright and faire.

  20 With riche treasures this gay ship fraighted was.