Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374), Engl.
Petrarch Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
Il Canzoniere (Book of Songs)
1. ‘Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono’
You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
Of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
In my first vagrant youthfulness,
When I was partly other than I am,
I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
For all the modes in which I talk and weep,
Between vain hope and vain sadness,
In those who understand love through its trials.
Yet I see clearly now I have become
An old tale amongst all these people, so that
It often makes me ashamed of myself;
And shame is the fruit of my vanities,
And remorse, and the clearest knowledge
Of how the world’s delight is a brief dream.
35. ‘Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi’
Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate
fields,
I go measuring out slow, hesitant paces,
And keep my eyes intent on fleeing
Any place where human footsteps mark the sand.
I find no other defence to protect me
From other people’s open notice,
Since in my aspect, whose joy is quenched,
They see from outside how I flame within.
So now I believe that mountains and river-banks
And rivers and forests know the quality
Of my life, hidden from others.
Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh
That love will not always come there
Speaking with me, and I with him.
transl. A. S. Kline, Copyright 2002
http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITB
R/Italian/PetrarchCanzoniere001-
061.htm#anchor_Toc9485220
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”
It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.
+++
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 season.
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.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)
Alas, so all things now do hold their peace!
Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing;
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease,
The nightès car the stars about doth bring;
Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less:
So am not I, whom love, alas! doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great increase
Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing,
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case.
For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure
bring:
But by and by, the cause of my disease
Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting,
When that I think what grief it is again
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
Sir Edmund Spenser (1552–1599)
Amoretti III:
The sovereign beauty which I do admire,
Witness the world how worthy to be praised:
The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire
In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised;
That being now with her huge brightness dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view;
But looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestial hue.
So when my tongue would speak her praises due,
It stopped is with thought's astonishment:
And when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravish'd is with fancy's wonderment:
Yet in my heart I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite.

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

Astrophil & Stella 1

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of
my pain,—
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make
her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would
flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my
sunburn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's
stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's
blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my
way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my
throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and
write."

Astrophil & Stella 106

O absent presence, Stella is not here;

False flattering hope, that with so fair a face
Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place
Stella, I say my Stella, should appear.
What say’st thou now? Where is that dainty cheer
Thou told’st mine eyes should help their famished
case?
But thou art gone, now that self-felt disgrace
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near.
But here I do store of fair ladies meet,
Who may with charm of conversation sweet
Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow:
Sure they prevail as much with me, as he
That bade his friend, but then new maimed, to be
Merry with him, and not think of his woe.

All texts except Petrarch’s are taken from

https://www.poetryfoundation.org