so wake,
    Whatever most that lovely face may pall,
    As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall,
    That veil which bids my heart “Now burn or break,”
    And, whether by humility or pride,
    Their glance, extinguishing mine every joy,
    Conducts me prematurely to my tomb: 
    Also my soul by one fair hand is tried,
    Cunning and careful ever to annoy,
    ’Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXI.

Io temo si de’ begli occhi l’ assalto.

HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO LONG DELAYED TO VISIT HER.

      So much I fear to encounter her bright eye. 
    Alway in which my death and Love reside,
    That, as a child the rod, its glance I fly,
    Though long the time has been since first I tried;
    And ever since, so wearisome or high,
    No place has been where strong will has not hied,
    Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die,
    And, cold as marble, I am laid aside: 
    Wherefore if I return to see you late,
    Sure ’tis no fault, unworthy of excuse,
    That from my death awhile I held aloof: 
    At all to turn to what men shun, their fate,
    And from such fear my harass’d heart to loose,
    Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXII.

S’ amore o morte non da qualche stroppio.

HE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.

      If Love or Death no obstacle entwine
    With the new web which here my fingers fold,
    And if I ’scape from beauty’s tyrant hold
    While natural truth with truth reveal’d I join,
    Perchance a work so double will be mine
    Between our modern style and language old,
    That (timidly I speak, with hope though bold)
    Even to Rome its growing fame may shine: 
    But, since, our labour to perfect at last
    Some of the blessed threads are absent yet
    Which our dear father plentifully met,
    Wherefore to me thy hands so close and fast
    Against their use?  Be prompt of aid and free,
    And rich our harvest of fair things shall be.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXIII

Quando dal proprio sito si rimove.

WHEN LAURA DEPARTS, THE HEAVENS GROW DARK WITH STORMS.

      When from its proper soil the tree is moved
    Which Phoebus loved erewhile in human form,
    Grim Vulcan at his labour sighs and sweats,
    Renewing ever the dread bolts of Jove,
    Who thunders now, now speaks in snow and rain,
    Nor Julius honoureth than Janus more: 
    Earth moans, and far from us the sun retires
    Since his dear mistress here