NOTT.

      Ye, who may listen to each idle strain
    Bearing those sighs, on which my heart was fed
    In life’s first morn, by youthful error led,
    (Far other then from what I now remain!)
    That thus in varying numbers I complain,
    Numbers of sorrow vain and vain hope bred,
    If any in love’s lore be practised,
    His pardon,—­e’en his pity I may obtain: 
    But now aware that to mankind my name
    Too long has been a bye-word and a scorn,
    I blush before my own severer thought;
    Of my past wanderings the sole fruit is shame,
    And deep repentance, of the knowledge born
    That all we value in this world is naught.

    DACRE.

SONNET II.

Per far una leggiadra sua vendetta.

HOW HE BECAME THE VICTIM OF LOVE.

      For many a crime at once to make me smart,
    And a delicious vengeance to obtain,
    Love secretly took up his bow again,
    As one who acts the cunning coward’s part;
    My courage had retired within my heart,
    There to defend the pass bright eyes might gain;
    When his dread archery was pour’d amain
    Where blunted erst had fallen every dart. 
    Scared at the sudden brisk attack, I found
    Nor time, nor vigour to repel the foe
    With weapons suited to the direful need;
    No kind protection of rough rising ground,
    Where from defeat I might securely speed,
    Which fain I would e’en now, but ah, no method know!

    NOTT.

      One sweet and signal vengeance to obtain
    To punish in a day my life’s long crime,
    As one who, bent on harm, waits place and time,
    Love craftily took up his bow again. 
    My virtue had retired to watch my heart,
    Thence of weak eyes the danger to repell,
    When momently a mortal blow there fell
    Where blunted hitherto dropt every dart. 
    And thus, o’erpower’d in that first attack,
    She had nor vigour left enough, nor room
    Even to arm her for my pressing need,
    Nor to the steep and painful mountain back
    To draw me, safe and scathless from that doom,
    Whence, though alas! too weak, she fain had freed.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET III.

Era ‘l giorno ch’ al sol si scoloraro.

HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD FRIDAY).

      ’Twas on the morn, when heaven its blessed ray
    In pity to its suffering master veil’d,
    First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,
    Of your victorious eyes th’ unguarded prey. 
    Ah! little reck’d I that, on such a day,
    Needed against Love’s arrows any shield;
    And trod, securely trod, the fatal field: 
    Whence, with the world’s, began my heart’s dismay. 
    On every side Love found his