Poetry: Petrarch, Wyatt, and Surrey
Rima 134: Petrarch
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| Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra; e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio; et volo sopra ‘l cielo, et giaccio in terra; et nulla stringo, et tutto ‘l mondo abbraccio.Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra, né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio; et non m’ancide Amore, et non mi sferra, né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d’impaccio.Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido; et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita; et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido; egualmente mi spiace morte et vita: in questo stato son, donna, per voi. |
I find no peace, and yet I make no war: and fear, and hope: and burn, and I am ice: and fly above the sky, and fall to earth, and clutch at nothing, and embrace the world.One imprisons me, who neither frees nor jails me, nor keeps me to herself nor slips the noose: and Love does not destroy me, and does not loose me, wishes me not to live, but does not remove my bar.I see without eyes, and have no tongue, but cry: and long to perish, yet I beg for aid: and hold myself in hate, and love another.I feed on sadness, laughing weep: death and life displease me equally: and I am in this state, lady, because of you. |
I Find no Peace: Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I seize on.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise—
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Rima 189: Petrarch
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| Passa la nave mia colma d’oblio per aspro mare, a mezza notte il verno, enfra Scilla et Caribdi; et al governo siede ‘l signore, anzi ‘l nimico mio.A ciascun remo un penser pronto et rio che la tempesta e ‘l fin par ch’abbi a scherno; la vela rompe un vento humido eterno di sospir’, di speranze, et di desio.Pioggia di lagrimar, nebbia di sdegni bagna et rallenta le già stanche sarte, che son d’error con ignorantia attorto.Celansi i duo mei dolci usati segni; morta fra l’onde è la ragion et l’arte, tal ch’incomincio a desperar del porto. |
My ship, full of oblivion, sails on a bitter sea, at winter’s midnight, between Scylla and Charybdis: at the helm sits that Lord, or rather my enemy.At each oar there’s a cruel eager thought, that scorns the tempest and its end: the sail’s torn by an eternal moist wind of sighs, of hopes, and of desire.A rain of tears, a mist of disdain drench and slacken the already tired shrouds, woven from error and ignorance.My two usual guiding lights are so hidden: reason and art so drowned by the waves, that I begin to despair of finding harbour. |
My Galley: Sir Thomas Wyatt
My galley, chargèd with forgetfulness,
Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass
‘Tween rock and rock; and eke mine en’my, alas,
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness;
And every owre a thought in readiness,
As though that death were light in such a case.
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness.
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,
Hath done the weared cords great hinderance;
Wreathèd with error and eke with ignorance.
The stars be hid that led me to this pain;
Drownèd is Reason that should me comfort,
And I remain despairing of the port.
Amoretti LXXV: Edmund Spenser
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
“Vain man,” said she, “that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.”
“Not so,” (quod I) “let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.”
Sonnet 34: William Shakespeare
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
‘Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence’s [cross].
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
Rima 310: Petrarch
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| Zephiro torna, e ‘l bel tempo rimena, e i fiori et l’erbe, sua dolce famiglia, et garrir Progne et pianger Philomena, et primavera candida et vermiglia.Ridono i prati, e ‘l ciel si rasserena; Giove s’allegra di mirar sua figlia; l’aria et l’acqua et la terra è d’amor piena; ogni animal d’amar si riconsiglia.Ma per me, lasso, tornano i piú gravi sospiri, che del cor profondo tragge quella ch’al ciel se ne portò le chiavi;et cantar augelletti, et fiorir piagge, e ‘n belle donne honeste atti soavi sono un deserto, et fere aspre et selvagge. |
Zephyr returns and brings fair weather, and the flowers and herbs, his sweet family, and Procne singing and Philomela weeping, and the white springtime, and the vermilion.The meadows smile, and the skies grow clear: Jupiter is joyful, gazing at his daughter: the air and earth and water are filled with love: every animal is reconciled to loving.But to me, alas, there return the heaviest sighs that she draws from the deepest heart, who took the keys of it away to heaven:and the song of little birds, and the flowering fields, and the sweet, virtuous actions of women are a wasteland to me, of bitter and savage creatures. |
The Soote Season: Henry Howard, Earle of Surrey
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with feathers new she sings,
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale,
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes float with new repaired scale,
The adder all her slough away she slings,
The swift swallow pursueth the flyës smale,
The busy bee her honey now she mings—
Winter is worn that was the flowers’ bale.
And thus I see, among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
