Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw? 
    When did such virtues one sole breast imbue? 
    Though with my death her chief perfection’s fraught. 
    For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires,
    Who ne’er beheld her eyes’ celestial stain,
    Where’er she turns around their brilliant fires: 
    He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again,
    Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respires
    The sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain!

    ANON.

SONNET CXXVII.

Amor ed io si pien di maraviglia.

HER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINE.

      As one who sees a thing incredible,
    In mutual marvel Love and I combine,
    Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine,
    None but herself can be her parallel. 
    Where the fine arches of that fair brow swell
    So sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine,
    Than whom no safer brighter beacons shine
    His course to guide who’d wisely love and well. 
    What miracle is this, when, as a flower,
    She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast,
    Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press’d
    And oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour,
    To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there,
    Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXVIII.

O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e pronti.

EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE OF HIS PASSION IS A TORMENT TO HIM.

      O scatter’d steps!  O vague and busy thoughts! 
    O firm-set memory!  O fierce desire! 
    O passion powerful!  O failing heart! 
    O eyes of mine, not eyes, but fountains now! 
    O leaf, which honourest illustrious brows,
    Sole sign of double valour, and best crown! 
    O painful life, O error oft and sweet! 
    That make me search the lone plains and hard hills. 
    O beauteous face! where Love together placed
    The spurs and curb, to strive with which is vain,
    They prick and turn me so at his sole will. 
    O gentle amorous souls, if such there be! 
    And you, O naked spirits of mere dust,
    Tarry and see how great my suffering is!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXIX.

Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbe.

HE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTS.

      Gay, joyous blooms, and herbage glad with showers,
    O’er which my pensive fair is wont to stray! 
    Thou plain, that listest her melodious lay,
    As her fair feet imprint thy waste of flowers! 
    Ye shrubs so trim; ye green, unfolding bowers;
    Ye violets clad in amorous, pale array;
    Thou shadowy grove, gilded by beauty’s ray,
    Whose top made proud majestically