E’en as a lady who her loving fee
    Hides ’neath a little veil of texture thin. 
    Of the two ills the first is all mine own,
    By day, by night to burn; how sweet that pain
    Dwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings: 
    Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,
    She levels all:  who hopes the crest to gain
    Of that proud light expands in vain his wings.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CL.

Se ‘l dolce sguardo di costei m’ ancide.

HE IS CONTINUALLY IN FEAR OF DISPLEASING HER.

      If thus the dear glance of my lady slay,
    On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait,
    If o’er me Love usurp a power so great,
    Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play;
    Alas! what were it if she put away,
    Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate,
    Her eyes from pity, and to death’s full hate,
    Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray. 
    Thus if at heart with terror I am cold,
    When o’er her fair face doubtful shadows spring,
    The feeling has its source in sufferings old. 
    Woman by nature is a fickle thing,
    And female hearts—­time makes the proverb sure—­
    Can never long one state of love endure.

    MACGREGOR.

      If the soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise,
    Of that beloved one can wound me so,
    And if, whene’er she lets her accents flow,
    Or even smiles, Love gains such victories;
    Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes,
    Which now secure my life through weal and woe,
    From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slow
    To shed on me their light in pity’s guise? 
    And if my trembling spirit groweth cold
    Whene’er I see change to her aspect spring,
    This fear is only born of trials old;
    (Woman by nature is a fickle thing,)
    And hence I know her heart hath power to hold
    But a brief space Love’s sweet imagining!

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CLI.

Amor, Natura, e la bell’ alma umile.

DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA.

      Love, Nature, Laura’s gentle self combines,
    She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
    Against my peace:  To pierce with mortal pains
    Love toils—­such ever are his stern designs. 
    Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines
    Her slender form, a breath may break its chains;
    And she, so much her heart the world disdains,
    Longer to tread life’s wearying round repines. 
    Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay
    All that to earth can joy and radiance lend,
    Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;
    And Death’s dread purpose should not Pity stay,
    Too well I see where all those hopes must end,
    With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.