MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXVII.

Il mio avversario, in cui veder solete.

LAURA AT HER LOOKING-GLASS.

      My foe, in whom you see your own bright eyes,
    Adored by Love and Heaven with honour due,
    With beauties not its own enamours you,
    Sweeter and happier than in mortal guise. 
    Me, by its counsel, lady, from your breast,
    My chosen cherish’d home, your scorn expell’d
    In wretched banishment, perchance not held
    Worthy to dwell where you alone should rest. 
    But were I fasten’d there with strongest keys,
    That mirror should not make you, at my cost,
    Severe and proud yourself alone to please. 
    Remember how Narcissus erst was lost! 
    His course and thine to one conclusion lead,
    Of flower so fair though worthless here the mead.

    MACGREGOR.

      My mirror’d foe reflects, alas! so fair
    Those eyes which Heaven and Love have honour’d too! 
    Yet not his charms thou dost enamour’d view,
    But all thine own, and they beyond compare: 
    O lady! thou hast chased me at its prayer
    From thy heart’s throne, where I so fondly grew;
    O wretched exile! though too well I knew
    A reign with thee I were unfit to share. 
    But were I ever fix’d thy bosom’s mate,
    A flattering mirror should not me supplant,
    And make thee scorn me in thy self-delight;
    Thou surely must recall Narcissus’ fate,
    But if like him thy doom should thee enchant,
    What mead were worthy of a flower so bright?

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXXVIII.

L’ oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli e i bianchi.

HE INVEIGHS AGAINST LAURA’S MIRROR, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER FORGET HIM.

      Those golden tresses, teeth of pearly white,
    Those cheeks’ fair roses blooming to decay,
    Do in their beauty to my soul convey
    The poison’d arrows from my aching sight. 
    Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight,
    For life with woe not long on earth will stay;
    But more I blame that mirror’s flattering sway,
    Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight. 
    Its power my bosom’s sovereign too hath still’d,
    Who pray’d thee in my suit—­now he is mute,
    Since thou art captured by thyself alone: 
    Death’s seeds it hath within my heart instill’d,
    For Lethe’s stream its form doth constitute,
    And makes thee lose each image but thine own.

    WOLLASTON.

      The gold and pearls, the lily and the rose
    Which weak and dry in winter wont to be,
    Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me,
    As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows: 
    Thus all my days now sadly shortly close,
    For seldom with great grief