MACGREGOR.

      Not all the spells of the magician’s art,
    Not potent herbs, nor travel o’er the main,
    But those sweet eyes alone can soothe my pain,
    And they which struck the blow must heal the smart;
    Those eyes from meaner love have kept my heart,
    Content one single image to retain,
    And censure but the medium wild and vain,
    If ill my words their honey’d sense impart;
    These are those beauteous eyes which never fail
    To prove Love’s conquest, wheresoe’er they shine,
    Although my breast hath oftenest felt their fire;
    These are those beauteous eyes which still assail
    And penetrate my soul with sparks divine,
    So that of singing them I cannot tire.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LVI.

Amor con sue promesse lusingando.

LOVE CHAINS ARE STILL DEAR TO HIM.

      By promise fair and artful flattery
    Me Love contrived in prison old to snare,
    And gave the keys to her my foe in care,
    Who in self-exile dooms me still to lie. 
    Alas! his wiles I knew not until I
    Was in their power, so sharp yet sweet to bear,
    (Man scarce will credit it although I swear)
    That I regain my freedom with a sigh,
    And, as true suffering captives ever do,
    Carry of my sore chains the greater part,
    And on my brow and eyes so writ my heart
    That when she witnesseth my cheek’s wan hue
    A sigh shall own:  if right I read his face,
    Between him and his tomb but small the space!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LVII.

Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF LAURA PAINTED BY SIMON MEMMI.

      Had Policletus seen her, or the rest
    Who, in past time, won honour in this art,
    A thousand years had but the meaner part
    Shown of the beauty which o’ercame my breast. 
    But Simon sure, in Paradise the blest,
    Whence came this noble lady of my heart,
    Saw her, and took this wond’rous counterpart
    Which should on earth her lovely face attest. 
    The work, indeed, was one, in heaven alone
    To be conceived, not wrought by fellow-men,
    Over whose souls the body’s veil is thrown: 
    ’Twas done of grace:  and fail’d his pencil when
    To earth he turn’d our cold and heat to bear,
    And felt that his own eyes but mortal were.

    MACGREGOR.

      Had Polycletus in proud rivalry
    On her his model gazed a thousand years,
    Not half the beauty to my soul appears,
    In fatal conquest, e’er could he descry. 
    But, Simon, thou wast then in heaven’s blest sky,
    Ere she, my fair one, left her native spheres,
    To trace a loveliness this world reveres