MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXI.

Anima, che diverse cose tante.

HE REJOICES AT BEING ON EARTH WITH HER, AS HE IS THEREBY ENABLED BETTER TO IMITATE HER VIRTUES.

      Soul! with such various faculties endued
    To think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;
    My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear! 
    Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;
    Your fortune smiles; if after or before,
    The path were won so badly follow’d yet,
    Ye had not then her bright eyes’ lustre met,
    Nor traced her light feet earth’s green carpet o’er. 
    Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign,
    ’Twere shame to err or halt on the brief way
    Which makes thee worthy of a home divine. 
    That better course, my weary will, essay! 
    To pierce the cloud of her sweet scorn be thine,
    Pursuing her pure steps and heavenly ray.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXII.

Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.

      Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,
    Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;
    Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,
    That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be. 
    Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;
    And those embitter’d sweets thy cup that fill
    With the sweet honour blend of loving still
    Her whom I told:  “Thou only pleasest me.” 
    Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say: 
    “For that high-boasted beauty of his day
    Enough the bard has borne!” then heave a sigh. 
    Others:  “Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, why
    Could not these eyes that lovely form survey? 
    Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?”

    NOTT.

      Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,
    Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,
    Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair! 
    That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat. 
    Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;
    And all th’ embitter’d sweets you’re doomed to share
    Blend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greet
    In these soft words, “Thou only art my care!”
    Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,
    “Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,
    For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!”
    While others cry, “Sad eyes! how hard your fate,
    Why could I ne’er this matchless beauty view? 
    Why was she born so soon, or I so late?”

    ANON. 1777.

CANZONE XIX.

S’ il dissi mai, ch’ i’ venga in odio a quella.

HE VEHEMENTLY REBUTS THE CHARGE OF LOVING ANOTHER.