31. Madrigal
|
|
Love, indeed not, but my eyes must be
those that in you uniqueness and beauty and life and death entire have found. As much as I am less offended and by the gift bourne down, the more it shatters and smarts me; the alternative also hurts me: the more the love, so much I find the blessing more. While I meditate and I endure the wrong, good grows for me, in a moment. O, new and strange torment! But it does not daunt me to have hardship and discontent and sweetness here where goodness never is: I go seeking sorrow with a larger penis. |
32. Fragment of a sonnet
|
I live in sin, I live dying to myself;
life is not yet mine, but sin: my good from heaven, my woe from me to myself is given by my unbound will, through which I deprive myself. Serving my liberty, my God himself has made me mortal. O state forlorn! to what misery, to live which I am born! |
33. Sestina fragment
|
|
Except for my own, of course, you would be with all other arms,
the defender of my every precious thing; another sword, another lance and another shield beyond their proper strengths are nothing; from me, such sad usage has set free the grace which heaven rains in every place. What old serpent in a narrow place can I surpass, leaving the old arms; and renewed with the costume and set free would the soul be in life and from every human thing, covering the self with a more secure shield, since for all the world to die is less than nothing. Of me, I sense already, Love makes nothing; nature is in sin in every place. I dispoil myself of myself; so with your shield, with your compassionate, true and sweet arms, defend me from myself, as every other thing as if it never was, is shortly set free. While in the body, the soul is not set free; Lord, who can make the universe nothing, maker, govener, king of every thing, little would it be to you, to have in me a place; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that of every virile man are the true arms, without those, every man becomes nothing. |
34. Sonnet
|
|
My love’s life is not this heart of mine,
for the love with which I love you is heartless; where things are mortal, filled with wrongness, surely it can never be, nor by wicked doctrine. Love, in making soul part from the Divine, made me a wholesome eye and of you light and splendidness; nor can it see Him more in that which perishes of you, by our curse, my great desiring. As heat from fire, in my surmise, beauty can not be divided from eternity, which exalts the one who most resembles whence it bestows. Seeing that you have all paradise in your eyes, to return there, where I loved you initially, I run back burning underneath your brows. |
35. Fragment in terza rima
|
|
The eyebrow's color does not harm the face
with its contrast, since the eye bears no stress from one extreme to the other, wherever it may face. The eye, lead about beneath with ease, has but a small part of the great ball uncovered. so in relief your serene looks stand out less, and it does not even rise and fall when covered; and for that reason are your eyelids small, which do not even wrinkle when they’re used. The white white, the black more than funeral, if that can be, the yellow a little more leonine, that makes steps from one to the other visible. Touch, if you like, your bottom and top confines; white does not surround the yellow and black. |
36. Fragment of a sonnet
|
|
Hereabouts it was, where my love relieved me,
by his mercy, of life and there, a bit more in, the heart; here, with pretty eyes, to me he promised help, and with the self-same here returned desire to me. On past here he bound me, about here freed me; by me here I cried, and with boundless dolor from this stone I saw him make departure who relieved me of myself and did not desire me. |
37. Epigram or sketch for a sonnet
|
|
In me the death, in you the life of me;
you distinguish and bestow and share out time; just as you like, short and long is this life of mine. Happy am I by your courtesy. Blessed the soul, where runs no time, if made by you to contemplate the Divine. |
38.
|
|
So much sweetness the eyes bear to the heart
which at one point time and death will pilfer! What is that in which I still take comfort that grows between the gasps and ever endures? Love, like virtue, life and shrewd sport, wakes the spirits and is more worth care. Like someone dead, make me some report as you lead your life, who are from me secure. Love is a conception of beauty, imagined or viewed within the heart, friend of virtue and of gentility. |
39. Sonetto incompiuto, here re-translated as couplets
|
|
For the savage blow and piercing dart,
the medicine has been to pass to me the heart; but only of my master is this typical, to increase life where he increases evil. And if his first blow would be mortal, with it came a messenger from Love, its equal who told me: “Love, instead of burning; he who dies has no other wings to turn about the skies. I am the one, who in your early years had turned those sickened eyes of yours to beauty, which I live to lead from earth to heaven.” |
40. Fragment of a sonnet
|
|
When Love, pleased to lift me up to heaven, is faced
with that woman’s eyes, indeed with the sun, with a brief laugh what pressure and pain of heart it thrusts me into, and you put on your face.; and if I endured much in such a place, the soul, that of me only wishes to complain, having with it there where soles remain, · · · · · · · · · · · |