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The White Doe from Canzoniere by Petrarch The White Doe by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
Translator Anna Armi
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind.
A pure-white doe in an emerald glade But as for me, alas, I may no more.
Appeared to me, with two antlers of gold, The vain travail hath wearied me so sore
Between two streams, under a laurel’s shade, I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
At sunrise, in the season’s bitter cold. Yet may I, by no means, my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore,
Her sight was so suavely merciless Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
That I left work to follow her at leisure, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Like the miser who looking for his treasure Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
Sweetens with that delight his bitterness. As well as I, may spend his time in vain;
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
Around her lovely neck “Do not touch me” There is written, her fair neck round about,
Was written with topaz and diamond stone, Noli me tangere for Caesar’s I am,
“My Caesar’s will has been to make me free.” And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
A sweet disorder in the dress My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (1609)
Kindles in clothes a wantonness. by William Shakespeare
A lawn about the shoulder thrown
Into a fine distraction; My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
An erring lace, which here and there Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
Enthralls the crimson stomacher, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
Ribbons to flow confusedly; I have seen roses damasked red and white,
A winning wave, deserving note, But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
In the tempestuous petticoat; And in some perfumes is there more delight
A careless shoestring, in whose tie Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I see a wild civility; I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
Do more bewitch me than when art That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
Is too precise in every part. I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she, belied with false compare.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (1609) To My Dear and Loving Husband (1678)
by William Shakespeare by Anne Bradstreet
5
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
If ever two were one, then surely we. And I will pledge with mine;
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
If ever wife was happy in a man, And I’ll not ask for wine.
Compare with me, ye women, if you can. The thirst that from the soul doth rise
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold Doth ask a drink divine;
Or all the riches that the East doth hold. But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
My love is such that rivers cannot quench, I would not change for thine.
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay, I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray. Not so much honoring thee
Then while we live, in love let’s so persevere As giving it a hope that there
That when we live no more, we may live ever. It could not withered be.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persevere But thou thereon didst only breathe,
That when we live no more, we may live ever. And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
An Epitaph upon a Young Married Couple, Not of itself but thee.
Dead and Buried Together (1646) by Richard Crashaw
Loving in Truth, and Fain in Verse My Love to Show (1591)
To these, whom death again did wed, by Sir Philip Sidney
This grave’s their second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of fate could force Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
‘Twixt soul and body a divorce, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
It could not sunder man and wife Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
‘Cause they both lived but one life. Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
Peace, good reader. Do not weep. I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Peace, the lovers are asleep. Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
They, sweet turtles, folded lie Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
In the last knot love could tie. Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.
And though they lie as they were dead, But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay;
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead, Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows;
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm) And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Love made the bed; they’ll take no harm; Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Let them sleep, let them sleep on. Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
Till this stormy night be gone, “Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”
Till th’ eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn
And they wake into a light,
Whose day shall never die in night.
To Celia (1616) by Ben Jonson The Passionate Shepherd to His Love (1599?)
by Christopher Marlowe
6
Come live with me and be my love, If all the world were young,
And we will all the pleasure prove And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, These pretty pleasures might me move
Woods, or steepy mountain yields. To live with thee and be thy love.
And we will sit upon the rocks, Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
By shallow rivers to whose falls And Philomel becometh dumb;
Melodious birds sing madrigals. The rest complains of cares to come.
And I will make thee beds of roses The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
And a thousand fragrant posies, To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
A gown made of the finest wool Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Fair lined slippers for the cold, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten –
With buckles of the purest gold; In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
A belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs: Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee move, All these in me no means can move
Come live with me, and be my love. To come to thee and be thy love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing But could youth last and love still breed,
For thy delight each May morning: Had joys no date nor age no need,
If these delights thy mind may move, Then these delights my mind might move
Then live with me and be my love. To live with thee and be thy love.