MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXV.

Io avro sempre in odio la fenestra.

BETTER IS IT TO DIE HAPPY THAN TO LIVE IN PAIN.

      Always in hate the window shall I bear,
    Whence Love has shot on me his shafts at will,
    Because not one of them sufficed to kill: 
    For death is good when life is bright and fair,
    But in this earthly jail its term to outwear
    Is cause to me, alas! of infinite ill;
    And mine is worse because immortal still,
    Since from the heart the spirit may not tear. 
    Wretched! ere this who surely ought’st to know
    By long experience, from his onward course
    None can stay Time by flattery or by force. 
    Oft and again have I address’d it so: 
    Mourner, away! he parteth not too soon
    Who leaves behind him far his life’s calm June.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVI.

Si tosto come avvien che l’ arco scocchi.

HE CALLS THE EYES OF LAURA FOES, BECAUSE THEY KEEP HIM IN LIFE ONLY TO TORMENT HIM.

      Instantly a good archer draws his bow
    Small skill it needs, e’en from afar, to see
    Which shaft, less fortunate, despised may be,
    Which to its destined sign will certain go: 
    Lady, e’en thus of your bright eyes the blow,
    You surely felt pass straight and deep in me,
    Searching my life, whence—­such is fate’s decree—­
    Eternal tears my stricken heart overflow;
    And well I know e’en then your pity said: 
    Fond wretch! to misery whom passion leads,
    Be this the point at once to strike him dead. 
    But seeing now how sorrow sorrow breeds,
    All that my cruel foes against me plot,
    For my worse pain, and for my death is not.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVII.

Poi che mia speme e lunga a venir troppo.

HE COUNSELS LOVERS TO FLEE, RATHER THAN BE CONSUMED BY THE FLAMES OF LOVE.

      Since my hope’s fruit yet faileth to arrive,
    And short the space vouchsafed me to survive,
    Betimes of this aware I fain would be,
    Swifter than light or wind from Love to flee: 
    And I do flee him, weak albeit and lame
    O’ my left side, where passion racked my frame. 
    Though now secure yet bear I on my face
    Of the amorous encounter signal trace. 
    Wherefore I counsel each this way who comes,
    Turn hence your footsteps, and, if Love consumes,
    Think not in present pain his worst is done;
    For, though I live, of thousand scapes not one! 
    ’Gainst Love my enemy was strong indeed—­
    Lo! from his wounds e’en she is doom’d to bleed.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVIII.