Could I, in melting verse, my thoughts but throw,
    As in my heart their living load I bear,
    No soul so cruel in the world was e’er
    That would not at the tale with pity glow. 
    But ye, blest eyes, which dealt me the sore blow,
    ’Gainst which nor helm nor shield avail’d to spare
    Within, without, behold me poor and bare,
    Though never in laments is breathed my woe. 
    But since on me your bright glance ever shines,
    E’en as a sunbeam through transparent glass,
    Suffice then the desire without the lines. 
    Faith Peter bless’d and Mary, but, alas! 
    It proves an enemy to me alone,
    Whose spirit save by you to none is known.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXV.

Io son dell’ aspectar omai si vinto.

HAVING ONCE SURRENDERED HIMSELF, HE IS COMPELLED EVER TO ENDURE THE PANGS OF LOVE.

      Weary with expectation’s endless round,
    And overcome in this long war of sighs,
    I hold desires in hate and hopes despise,
    And every tie wherewith my breast is bound;
    But the bright face which in my heart profound
    Is stamp’d, and seen where’er I turn mine eyes,
    Compels me where, against my will, arise
    The same sharp pains that first my ruin crown’d. 
    Then was my error when the old way quite
    Of liberty was bann’d and barr’d to me: 
    He follows ill who pleases but his sight: 
    To its own harm my soul ran wild and free,
    Now doom’d at others’ will to wait and wend;
    Because that once it ventured to offend.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXVI.

Ahi bella liberta, come tu m’ hai.

HE DEPLORES HIS LOST LIBERTY AND THE UNHAPPINESS OF HIS PRESENT STATE.

      Alas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee,
    Well hast thou taught my discontented heart
    To mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love’s dart
    Dealt me the wound which heal’d can never be;
    Mine eyes so charm’d with their own weakness grow
    That my dull mind of reason spurns the chain;
    All worldly occupation they disdain,
    Ah! that I should myself have train’d them so. 
    Naught, save of her who is my death, mine ear
    Consents to learn; and from my tongue there flows
    No accent save the name to me so dear;
    Love to no other chase my spirit spurs,
    No other path my feet pursue; nor knows
    My hand to write in other praise but hers.

    MACGREGOR.

      Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence,
    Too well didst thou reveal unto my heart
    Its careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart,
    Of whose dread wound I ne’er can lose the sense
    My eyes, enamour’d of their grief intense,
    Did in that hour from Reason’s