P189: Passa la nave mia colma d’oblio
To this letter she annexed this sonnet:
My boat doth pass the straits
of seas incensed with fire,
Filled with forgetfulness;
Amidst the winter’s night,
A blind and careless boy,
Brought up by fond desire,
Doth guide me in the sea
of sorrow and despite.
For every oar he sets
10 A rank of foolish thoughts,
And cuts, instead of wave,
A hope without distress;
The winds of my deep sighs,
That thunder still for noughts
Have split my sails with fear,
With care, with heaviness.
A mighty storm of tears
A black and hideous cloud,
A thousand fierce disdains
20 Do slack the halyards oft;
Till ignorance do pull,
And error hale the shrouds
No star for safety shines,
No Phoebe from aloft.
Time hath subdued art,
And joy is slave to woe
Alas, Love’s guide, be kind;
What, shall I perish so?
P134: Pace non trovo e non ò da far guerra
I wage the combat with two mighty foes
Which are more strong than I ten thousand fold;
The one is when thy pleasure I do lose,
The other, when thy person I behold.
In seeing thee a swarm of loves confound me
And cause my death in spite of my resist,
And if I see thee not, thy want doth wound me,
For in thy sight my comfort doth consist.
The one in me continual care createth,
10 The other doth occasion my desire;
The one the edge of all my joy rebateth,
The other makes me a phoenix in love’s fire.
So that I grieve when I enjoy your presence,
And die for grief by reason of your absence.
I would in rich and golden-coloured rain,
With tempting showers in pleasant sort descend
Into fair Phillis’ lap, my louely friend,
When sleep her slumber doth retrain,
I would be changed to a milk-white bull,
When midst the gladsome field she should appear,
By pleasant fineness to surprise my dear,
Whilst from their stalks, she pleasant flowers did pull,
I were content to weary out my pain,
10 To be Narcissus so she were a spring,
To drown in her those wose my heart do ring,
And more; I wish transformed to remain,
That whilst I thus in pleasure’s lap did lie,
I might refresh desire, which else would die.
The Phoenix Nest (1593)
The Phoenix Nest was another popular anthology. T. L. Gent is undoubtedly Thomas Lodge; Sir W. H. has never been identified. I have included several Petrarchan virtuoso pieces, such as ‘Hir face, Hir tong, Hir wit’, which can be read from left to right as well as from top to bottom.
P189: Passa la nave mia colmo d’oblio
My fraile and earthly barke by reasons guide,
Which holds the helme, whilst will doth yeld the saile
By my desires the windes of bad betide,
Hath saild these worldly seas with small auaile,
Vaine obiects serue for dreadfull rocks to quaile,
My brittle boate, from hauen of life that flies,
To haunt the Sea of Mundane miseries.
My soule that drawes impressions from aboue,
And viewes my course, and sees the windes aspire,
10 Bids reason watch to scape the shoales of Loue
But lawles will enflamde with endles ire,
Doth steere in poope whilst reason doth retire:
The storms increase, my barke loues billowes fill
Thus are they wrackt, that guide their course by will.
T. L. Gent
P189: Passa la nave mi colma d’oblio
These lines I send by waues of woe,
And bale becomes my boate:
Which sighes of sorowes still shall keepe,
On floods of feare afloat.
My sighes shall serue me still for winde,
My lading is my smart:
And true report my pilot is,
My hauen is thy hart.
My keele is fram’d of crabbed care,
10 My ribs are all of ruthe:
My planks are nothing else but plants,
With treenailes ioinde with truthe.
My maine mast made of nought but mone,
My tackling trickling teares;
And Topyard like a troubled minde
A flagge of follie beares.
My Cable is a constant hart,
My Anckor luckles Loue:
Which Reasons Capstones from the ground,
20 Of griefe can not remoue.
My Decks are all of deepe disgrace,
My Compas discontent;
And perill is my Northern Pole,
And death my Orient.
My Saylers are my sorowing thoughts,
The Boateswane bitter sence:
The Master, miserie; his mate
Is dolefull diligence.
Sir W. H.
Those eies which set my fancie on a fire,
Those crisped haires, which hold my hart in chains,
Those daintie hands, which conquer’d my desire,
That wit, which of my thoughts doth hold the rains.
Those eies for cleernes doe the starrs surpas,
Those haires obsure the brightnes of the Sunne,
Those hands more white, than euer Iourie was,
That wit euen to the skies hath glorie woon.
O eies that pearce our harts without remorse,
10 O haires of right that weares a roiall crowne,
O hands that conquer more than Caesars force,
O wit that turns huge kingdoms vpside downe.
Then Loue be Iudge, what hart may thee withstand:
Such eies, such haire, such wit, and such a hand.
Hir face,
Hir tong,
Hir wit,
So faine,
So sweete,
So sharpe,
First bent,
Then drew,
Then hit,
Mine eie,
Mine eare,
My hart.
Mine eie,
Mine eare,
My hart,
To like
To learne,
To loue,
Hir face,
Hir tong,
Hir wit,
Doth lead,
doth teach,
Doth moue.
Oh face,
Oh tong,
Oh wit,
10
With frownes
With checke
With smart,
Wrong not,
Vexe not,
Wound not,
Mine eie,
Mine eare,
My hart.
Mine eie,
Mine eare,
My hart,
To learne,
To knowe,
To feare,
Hir face,
Hir tong,
Hir wit,
Doth lead,
Doth teach,
Doth sweare.
What else is hell, but losse of blisfull heauen?
What darknes else, but lacke of lightsome day?
What else is death, but things of life bereauen?
What winter else, but pleasant springs decay?
Vnrest what else, but fancies hot desire
Fed with delay, and followed with dispaire?
What else mishap, but longing to aspire,
To striue against, earth, water, fire, and aire?
Heauen were my state, and ha
ppie Sunneshine day,
10 And life most blest, to ioy one howres desire,
Hap, blisse, and rest, and sweete springtime of May,
Were to behold my faire consuming fire.
But loe, I feele, by absence from your sight,
Mishap, vnrest, death, winter, hell, darke night.
Would I were chaung’d into that golden showre,
That so diuinely streamed from the skies,
To fall in drops vpon the dainte floore,
Where in hir bed, she solitarie lies,
Then would I hope such showres as richly shine,
Would pearce more deepe than these wast tears of mine.
Or would I were, that plumed Swan, snowe white,
Vnder whose forme, was hidden heauenly power,
Then in that riuer would I most delite,
10 Whose waues doe beate, against hir stately bower,
And in those banks, so tune my dying song,
That hir deafe ears, would think my plaint too long.
Else would I were, Narcissus, that sweete boy,
And she hir selfe, the sacred fountaine cleere,
Who rauisht with the pride of his owne ioy,
Drenched his lims, with gazing ouer neere:
So should I bring, my soule to happie rest,
To end my life, in that I loued best.
P61: Benedetto sia’l giorno e ’l mese e’lanno
The time, when first I fell in Loue,
Which now I must lament,
The yeere, wherein I lost such time,
To compasse my content.
The day, wherein I sawe too late,
The follies of a Louer,
The hower, wherein I found such losse,
As care cannot recouer.
And last, the minute of mishap,
10 Which makes me thus to plaine,
The dolefull fruits of Louers sutes,
Which labor lose in vaine:
Doth make me solemnly protest,
As I with paine doe proue,
There is no time, yeere, day, nor howre,
Nor minute, good to loue.
P310: Zefiro torna e ’l bel tempo rimena
The gentle season of the yeere,
Hath made my blouming branch appeere,
And beautified the land with flowres,
The aire doth fauor with delight,
The heauens doe smile, to see the sight,
And yet mine eies, augments their showres.
The meades are mantled all with greene,
The trembling leaues, haue cloth’d the treene,
The birds with feathers new doe sing,
10 But I poore soule, when wrong doth wrack,
Attyres my selfe in mourning black,
Whose leafe doth fall amid his spring.
And as you see the skarlet Rose
In his sweete prime, his buds disclose,
Whose he we is with the Sun reuiued,
So in the Aprill of mine age,
My liuely colours doe asswage,
Because my Sun-shine is depriued.
My hart that wonted was of yore,
20 Light as the winde abroad to sore,
Amongst the buds when beautie springs,
Now onely houers ouer you,
As doth the birde thats taken new,
And mourns when all hir neighbours sings.
When euery man is bent to sport,
Then pensiue I alone resort,
Into some soli tarie walke,
As doth the dolefull Turtle doue,
Who hauing lost hir faithfull loue,
30 Sits mourning on some withered stalke.
There to my selfe, I doe recount,
How far my woes, my ioyes surmount,
How Loue requiteth me with hate:
How all my pleasures end in paine,
How hate doth say, my hope is vaine,
How fortune frownes vpon my state.
And in this moode, charg’d with despaire,
With vapored sighes, I dim the aire,
And to the Gods make this request:
40 That by the ending of my life,
I may haue truce with this strange strife,
And bring my soule to better rest.
P145: Ponmi ove’l sole occide i fiori e l’erba
Set me where Phœbus heate, the flowers slaieth
Or where continuall snowe withstands his forces,
Set me where he his temprate raies displaieth,
Or where he comes, or where he neuer courses.
Set me in Fortunes grace, or else discharged,
In sweete and pleasant aire, or darke and glooming,
Where daies and nights, are lesser, or inlarged,
In yeeres of strength, in failing age, or blooming.
Set me in heauen, or earth, or in the center,
10 Lowe in a vale, or on a mountaine placed,
Set me to daunger, perill, and aduenture,
Graced by Fame, or infamie disgraced.
Set me to these, or anie other triall,
Except my Mistres anger and deniall.
P5: Quando io movo i sospiri a chiamar voi
Thinking vpon the name, by Loue engraued,
Within my hart, to be my lieus directer,
The value of the whole entirely saued,
I reade vpon the sillables this lecter,
Maruell, the first into my spirits soundeth,
And maruelling at hir, the maruell woundeth.
I seeke to Gaine, as by the second’s ment,
An interest in this admired maruaile,
But cannot finde a meane sufficient,
10 So hie a rated Gem to counteruaile,
There is no weight in fire ordaind to shine,
Nor counterworth of any thing diuine.
The last doth giue me counsell to Retire,
And rest content, that Loue hath blest my sight,
And toucht my fancie with th’ immortall fire,
Of this diuine, and precious Margaret,
And thanke my fortune of exceeding fauour,
As to be thralled to so sweete behauiour.
P21: Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera
To make a truce, sweete Mistres with your eies,
How often haue I proffred you my hart,
Which profers vnesteemed you despise,
As far to meane, to equall your desart,
Your minde wherein, all hie perfections flowe,
Deignes not the thought, of things that are so lowe.
To striue to alter his desires, were vaine,
Whose vowed hart, affects no other place,
The which since you despise, I doe disdaine
10 To count it mine, as erst before it was:
For that is mine, which you alone alow,
As I am yours, and onely liue for you.
Now if I him forsake, and he not finde,
His wretched exile, succord by your eies,
He can not yeeld, to serue anothers minde,
Nor lieu alone, for nature that denies,
Then die he must, for other choise is none,
But lieu in you, or me, or die alone.
Whose haples death, when Fame abroad hath blowne,
20 Blame and reproch, procures vnto vs both,
I, as vnkinde, forsaking so mine owne,
But you much more, from whom the rigour groweth,
And so much more, will your dishonor be,
By how much more, it loued you than me.
Sweete Ladie then, the harts misfortune rue,
Whose loue and seruice euermore was true.
WILLIAM SMITH (fl. 1596)
Of Smith, we know nothing except that he was acquainted with Spenser because he makes reference to Colin Clout, and might have been patronized by the Countess of Pembroke. His sonnet sequence, Chloris, or the complaint of the passionate, despised shepheard, appeared in 1596. Here he returns Petrarch’s first sestina to a sonnet. Sonnet 37 from Chloris
.
P22: A qualunque animale alberga in terra
Each beast in field doth wish the morning light.
The birds to Hesper pleasant laies do sing:
The wanton kids, well fed, reioice in night;
Being likewise glad when day begins to spring.
But night, nor day, are welcome vnto me:
Both can beare witnes of my lamentation.
All day, sad sighing Corine you shall see;
All night he spends in teares and exclamation.
Thus still I lieu although I take no rest:
10 But liuing look as one that is a dying:
Thus my sad soule with care and griefe opprest,
Seems as a ghost to Styx and Lethe flying.
Thus hath fond loue bereft my youthfull yeeres
Of all good hap before old age appeeres.
ROBERT TOFTE (d. 1620)
Tofte travelled much in Italy, translated Boiardo and Ariosto, and here turns Petrarch’s mysterious deer poem into a game of hide-and-seek in a park without even mentioning that the park and the deer belong to Caesar. See Wyatt, p. 93. Sonnet III.xv from Laura; the Toyes of a Traveller (1597).
P190: Una candida cerva sopra l’erba
A gentle tame deer am I, called a Hart:
The cruel huntress fierce my Mistress is.
With crossbow bent, she comes to me in Park;
Paled in with pleasant thoughts of wanton wish.
She shoots, and hits me; takes me for her prey:
And (having shot, hit, taken) flies her way.
Back she retires from me, with pleasant smile;
Unloosing me, and heals my wound and pain:
When, as afresh incensed (alack the while!)
10 ’Gainst me, desirous me to plague again,
She turns towards me, o’ertakes me, strikes me sore:
And, binding up my wounds, makes deadly more.
Seventeenth Century
Petrarch in English Page 16