aching breast. 
    With slighted love and self-shame boiling o’er;
    That on my precious prize in time of need
    I kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand
    ’Gainst what at best was merely angel force,
    That my feet were not wings their flight to speed,
    And so at last take vengeance on the hand,
    Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIX.

D’ un bel, chiaro, polito e vivo ghiaccio.

THOUGH RACKED BY AGONY, HE DOES NOT COMPLAIN OF HER.

      The flames that ever on my bosom prey
    From living ice or cold fair marble pour,
    And so exhaust my veins and waste my core,
    Almost insensibly I melt away. 
    Death, his stern arm already rear’d to slay,
    As thunders angry heaven or lions roar,
    Pursues my life that vainly flies before,
    While I with terror shake, and mute obey. 
    And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they might
    A double column for my succour throw
    Between my worn soul and the mortal blow: 
    It may not be; such feelings in the sight
    Of my loved foe and mistress never stir;
    The fault is in my fortune, not in her.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXX.

Lasso, ch’ i’ ardo, ed altri non mel crede!

POSTERITY WILL ACCORD TO HIM THE PITY WHICH LAURA REFUSES.

      Alas, with ardour past belief I glow! 
    None doubt this truth, except one only fair,
    Who all excels, for whom alone I care;
    She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe. 
    O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thou
    Look in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there? 
    Were I not fated by my baleful star,
    For me from pity’s fount might favour flow. 
    My flame, of which thou tak’st so little heed,
    And thy high praises pour’d through all my song,
    O’er many a breast may future influence spread: 
    These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,
    Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet’s tongue,
    E’en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.

    NOTT.

      Alas!  I burn, yet credence fail to gain
    All others credit it save only she
    All others who excels, alone for me;
    She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plain
    Infinite beauty, little faith and slow,
    Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes? 
    Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,
    From mercy’s fount some pitying balm to flow. 
    Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,
    And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,
    May thousands yet inflame in after times;
    These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,
    Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,
    Shall lighten other loves and live in death.