by Mark Musa
Se ’n breve non m’accoglie o non mi smorsa,
ma pur come suol far tra due mi tene,
per quel ch’ io sento al cor gir fra le vene
dolce veneno, Amor, mia vita è corsa.
Non po più la vertù fragile et stanca
tante varietati omai soffrire,
che ’n un punto arde, agghiaccia, arrossa, e ’mbianca.
Fuggendo spera i suoi dolor finire
come colei che d’ora in ora manca,
ché ben po nulla chi non po morire.
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No weary helmsman ever rushed for port
away from black and stormy waves at sea
as I flee from my dark and turbid trouble
to where my surging passion urges me;
and never has divine light conquered more
a mortal’s sight than mine did that high ray
of the sweet, lovely, gentle black and white
in which Love dips in gold his sharpened arrows.
He is not blind; I see him with a quiver,
naked, except where shame commands a veil,
a boy with wings, not painted but alive.
From there he shows me what he hides from many:
in her fair eyes I read there word by word
all that I say of love and all I write.
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This kind, wild beast, this tiger’s heart or bear’s
that comes in human shape or form of angel,
in tears, in laughter, amid fear and hope,
spins me around and makes my state uncertain.
If she won’t take me soon or let me free
or keeps on holding me between the two,
from that sweet poison running through my heart
and veins I feel, Love, that my life is over.
My frail and weary strength now is unable
to suffer all this change, for all at once
it burns and freezes, blushes and turns pale.
It hopes by fleeing to end all its grief
like one who feels he’s failing gradually,
for he is powerless who cannot die.
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Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core,
rompete il ghiaccio che pietà contende;
et se prego mortale al ciel s’intende
morte o mercé sia fine al mio dolore.
Ite, dolci penser, parlando fore
di quello ove ’l bel guardo non s’estende;
se pur sua asprezza o mia stella n’offende,
sarem fuor di speranza et fuor d’errore.
Dir se po ben per voi, non forse a pieno,
che ’l nostro stato è inquieto et fosco,
si come ’l suo pacifico et sereno.
Gite securi omai, ch’ Amor ven vosco;
et ria fortuna po ben venir meno,
s’ ai segni del mio sol l’aere conosco.
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Le stelle, il cielo, et gli elementi a prova
tutte lor arti et ogni estrema cura
poser nel vivo lume in cui Natura
si specchia e ’l sol, ch’ altrove par non trova.
L’opra è sì altera, sì leggiadra et nova,
che mortal guardo in lei non s’assecura,
tanta negli occhi bei for di misura
par ch’ Amore et dolcezza et grazia piova.
L’aere percosso da’ lor dolci rai
s’infiamma d’onestate, et tal diventa
che ’l dir nostro e ’l penser vince d’assai;
basso desir non è ch’ ivi si senta,
ma d’onor, di vertute. Or quando mai
fu per somma beltà vil voglia spenta?
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Go now, my sighs of warmth, to her cold heart
and break the ice which fights against her pity,
and if a mortal’s prayer be heard in Heaven,
let death or mercy end my suffering.
Go now, sweet thoughts of mine, and clearly speak
about that which her fair gaze cannot reach;
if still her harshness strikes us, or my star,
then we’ll be out of hope and out of error.
You can explain, although perhaps not fully,
how our state is as dark and as unquiet
as hers is full of peace and clarity.
Now go in safety, for Love comes with you;
and our bad fortune could come to an end
to judge the weather by my own sun’s signs.
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The stars, the heavens, the elements in contest
put all their art, put all the utmost care
into that living light which Nature mirrors
and sun which finds its equal nowhere else.
This feat is so sublime, so new and charming,
that mortal sight cannot feel safe with it;
it seems that Love within her lovely eyes
is raining grace and sweetness beyond measure.
The air that’s struck by those sweet rays of hers
burns with her chastity, becoming such
that our own thought and words it far surpasses;
no base desire can be felt therein,
only virtue and honor. Now when and ever
was vile desire quenched by highest beauty?
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Non fur ma’ Giove et Cesare sì mossi
(a folminar colui, questo a ferire)
che pietà non avesse spente l’ire
e lor de l’usate arme ambeduo scossi:
piangea Madonna, e ’l mio signor ch’ i’ fossi
volse a vederla et suoi lamenti a udire,
per colmarmi di doglia et di desire
et ricercarmi le medolle et gli ossi.
Quel dolce pianto mi depinse Amore,
anzi scolpio, et que’ detti soavi
mi scrisse entro un diamante in mezzo ’l core,
ove con salde ed ingegnose chiavi
ancor torna sovente a trarne fore
lagrime rare et sospir lunghi et gravi.
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I’ vidi in terra angelici costumi
et celesti bellezze al mondo sole,
tal che di rimembrar mi giova et dole
ché quant’ io miro par sogni, ombre, et fumi.
Et vidi lagrimar que’ duo bei lumi
ch’ àn fatto mille volte invidia al sole,
et udi’ sospirando dir parole
che farian gire i monti et stare i fiumi.
Amor, senno, valor, pietate, et doglia
facean piangendo un più dolce concento
d’ogni altro che nel mondo udir si soglia;
ed era il cielo a l’armonia sì intento
che non se vedea in ramo mover foglia,
tanta dolcezza avea pien l’aere e ’l vento.
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Both Jove and Caesar never were so moved,
the one to wound, the other one to thunder,
that pity would not put their anger out
and shake them both from their accustomed arms:
my lady wept and my lord wanted me
to see her there and listen to her sorrow,
to fill me full of grief and with desire
to move me to the marrow of my bones.
Love painted that sweet flow of tears for me,
he sculpted them, and all those gracious words
he wrote in diamond deep inside my heart,
where with his powerful and skillful keys
he still returns and often he draws forth
the precious tears, the long and heavy sighs.
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I saw on earth angelic qualities
and heavenly beauties unique in the world,
and to recall them pains and pleases me,
for all I see seems shadow, smoke, and dreams.
And I saw those two lovely lights in tears
both envied by the sun a thousand times,
and I heard words pronounced amid deep sighing
that
would make mountains move and rivers stop.
Love, wisdom and worth, pity and sorrow
made out of tears a sweeter symphony
than any other heard throughout the world;
the heavens were so entranced by harmony
that not a leaf upon its branch dared move,
so full of sweetness was the air and wind.
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Quel sempre acerbo et onorato giorno
mandò sì al cor l’imagine sua viva
che ’ngegno o stil non fia mai che ’l descriva;
ma spesso a lui co la memoria torno.
L’atto d’ogni gentil pietate adorno
e ’l dolce amaro lamentar ch’ i’ udiva
facean dubbiar se mortal donna o diva
fosse che ’l ciel rasserenava intorno.
La testa or fino, et calda neve il volto,
ebeno i cigli, et gli occhi eran due stelle
onde Amor l’arco non tendeva in fallo;
perle et rose vermiglie ove l’accolto
dolor formava ardenti voci et belle,
fiamma i sospir, le lagrime cristallo.
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Ove ch’ i’ posi gli occhi lassi o giri
per quetar la vaghezza che gli spinge,
trovo chi bella donna ivi depinge,
per far sempre mai verdi i miei desiri.
Con leggiadro dolor par ch’ ella spiri
alta pietà che gentil core siringe;
oltra la vista, agli orecchi orna e ’nfinge
sue voci vive et suoi santi sospiri.
Amor e ’l ver fur meco a dir che quelle
ch’ i’ vidi eran bellezze al mondo sole,
mai non vedute più sotto le stelle;
né sì pietose et sì dolci parole
s’udiron mai, né lagrime si belle
di sì belli occhi uscir mai vide ’l sole.
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That day forever more so cruel and honored
sent to my heart its image so alive
there is no wit or style that can describe it;
but often I recall it with my mind.
Her attitude, adorned with gracious pity,
the bittersweet lamenting that I heard,
caused me to wonder were she mortal woman
or goddess, for she cleared the sky around her.
Her head fine gold, her face was like warm snow,
her eyebrows ebony, her eyes two stars
from where Love never bent his bow in vain;
pearls and red roses where the gathered grief
was transformed into ardent, lovely words,
her sighs a flame, her tears as though of crystal.
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Any place I rest or turn my weary eyes
to quiet the desire that impels them,
I find there one who draws the lovely lady
to keep desire in me always green.
With gentle sorrow she seems to inspire
profound pity that wrings a noble heart;
and more than sight my ears seem to imagine
her living voice and all her holy sighs.
Love and the truth were on my side to say
these beauties seen were unique in the world
and never seen again beneath the stars;
nor words so sweet and so compassionate
were ever heard, nor tears so lovely seen
under the sun pour from such lovely eyes.
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In qual parte del Ciel, in quale Idea
era l’esempio onde Natura tolse
quel bel viso leggiadro in ch’ ella volse
mostrar qua giù quanto lassù potea?
Qual ninfa in fonti, in selve mai qual dea
chiome d’oro sì fino a l’aura sciolse?
quando un cor tante in sé vertuti accolse?
ben che la somma è di mia morte rea.
Per divina bellezza indarno mira
chi gli occhi de costei giamai non vide,
come soavemente ella gli gira;
non sa come Amor sana et come ancide,
chi non sa come dolce ella sospira
et come dolce parla et dolce ride.
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Amor et io, sì pien di meraviglia
come chi mai cosa incredibil vide,
miriam costei quand’ ella parla o ride
che sol se stessa et nulla altra simiglia.
Dal bel seren de le tranquille ciglia
sfavillan sì le mie due stelle fide
ch’ altro lume non è ch’ infiammi et guide
chi d’amar altamente si consiglia.
Qual miracolo è quel, quando tra l’erba
quasi un fior siede, o ver quand’ ella preme
col suo candido seno un verde cespo!
Qual dolcezza è ne la stagione acerba
vederla ir sola coi pensier suoi inseme,
tessendo un cerchio a l’oro terso et crespo!
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From what part of the heavens, from what Idea
did Nature take the model to derive
that lovely charming face by which she chose
to show down here her power up above?
What fountain nymph, what woodland goddess ever
let such fine hair of gold flow in the breeze?
How did a heart collect so many virtues
the sum of which is guilty of my death?
Who seeks for divine beauty seeks in vain
if he has not yet looked upon those eyes
and seen how tenderly she makes them move;
he does not know how love can heal and kill
who does not know the sweetness of her sighs,
the sweetness of her speech, how sweet her smile.
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Love and myself as full of wonderment
as one who sees the unbelievable,
marvel to see her speak or laugh, the one
who stands alone resembling no other.
From the fair heaven of her tranquil brows
those dual lights I trust in sparkle so
that no light’s left to guide and to inflame
whoever hopes to follow noble love.
What miracle when she upon the grass
sits like a flower or when her white breast
presses against the greenness of a bush!
What sweetness when in the unripened season
you see her walking with her thoughts alone,
weaving a wreath for her bright curly gold.
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O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi et pronti,
o tenace memoria, o fero ardore,
o possente desire, o debil core,
oi occhi miei (occhi non già, ma fonti);
o fronde, onor de le famose fronti,
o sola insegna al gemino valore;
o faticosa vita, o dolce errore,
che mi fate ir cercando piagge et monti;
o bel viso, ove Amor inseme pose
gli sproni e ’l fren ond’ el mi punge et volve
come a lui piace, e calcitrar non vale;
o anime gentili et amorose,
s’ alcuna à ’l mondo, et voi, nude ombre et polve:
deh, ristate a veder quale è ’l mio male!
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Lieti fiori et felici, et ben nate erbe
che Madonna pensando premer sòle,
piaggia ch’ ascolti sue dolci parole
et del bel piede alcun vestigio serbe,
schietti arboscelli et verdi frondi acerbe,
amorosette et pallide viole,
ombrose selve ove percote il sole
che vi fa co’ suoi raggi alte et superbe,
o soave contrada, o puro fiume
che bagni il suo bel viso et gli occhi chiari
et prendi qualità dal vivo lume:
quanto v’invidio gli atti onesti et cari!
Non fia in voi scoglio omai che per costume
d’arder co la mia fiamma non impari.
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O useless steps, O thoughts charming and quick,
O binding memory, O burning love,
O powerful desire, O failing heart,
O my eyes (eyes no more, but fountains),
O leafy bough, honor of famous brows,
O single symbol for those dual values,
O weary life of mine, O my sweet error
which forces me to search the shores and hills,
O lovely face where Love has put together
both spurs and rein with which he pricks and turns me
as pleases him (and kicking back is useless),
O loving souls who love in graciousness,
if there are any, all you shades and dust,
ah, stay awhile and see what pain is mine.
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Flowers joyful and glad, fortunate grass
on which my lady used to walk in thought,
shore that would listen to her words of sweetness
conserving traces of her lovely foot,
trees straight and slender, branches young and green,
violets pale and delicately lovely,
forests of shade on which the sunlight strikes
and makes you tall and proud with her own rays,
O gentle countryside, O river pure
that bathes her lovely face and her bright eyes
and takes its quality from her live light:
how much I envy you her fair, dear presence!
There’s not a stone among you now that is
not learning how to burn with flame like mine.
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Amor, che vedi ogni pensero aperto
e i duri passi onde tu sol mi scorgi,
nel fondo del mio cor gli occhi tuoi porgi
a te palese, a tutt’ altri coverto.
Sai quel che per seguirte ò già sofferto,
et tu pur via di poggio in poggio sorgi
di giorno in giorno, et di me non t’accorgi,
che son sì stanco e ’l sentier m’è troppo erto.
Ben veggio io di lontano il dolce lume
ove per aspre vie mi sproni et giri,
ma non ò come tu da volar piume.
Assai contenti lasci i miei desiri