Enough my grief When a superfluous pride In a fair lady many virtues hides.
There is who answereth without a call; There is who, though entreated, fails and flies: There is who melts 'neath ice: There is who day and night desires his death.
Love who loves you, is an old proverb now.
Well know I what I say.

But let it pass; 'Tis meet, at their own cost, that men should learn.
A modest lady wearies her best friend.
Good figs are little known.

To me it seems Wise to eschew things hazardous and high; In any country one may be at ease.
Infinite hope below kills hope above; And I at times e'en thus have been the talk.
My brief life that remains There is who'll spurn not if to Him devote.
I place my trust in Him who rules the world, And who his followers shelters in the wood, That with his pitying crook Me will He guide with his own flock to feed.
Haply not every one who reads discerns; Some set the snare at times who take no spoil; Who strains too much may break the bow in twain.
Let not the law be lame when suitors watch.
To be at ease we many a mile descend.
To-day's great marvel is to-morrow's scorn.
A veil'd and virgin loveliness is best.
Blessed the key which pass'd within my heart, And, quickening my dull spirit, set it free From its old heavy chain, And from my bosom banish'd many a sigh.
Where most I suffer'd once she suffers now; Her equal sorrows mitigate my grief; Thanks, then, to Love that I Feel it no more, though he is still the same! In silence words that wary are and wise; The voice which drives from me all other care; And the dark prison which that fair light hides: As midnight on our hills the violets; And the wild beasts within the walls who dwell; The kind demeanour and the dear reserve; And from two founts one stream which flow'd in peace Where I desire, collected where I would.
Love and sore jealousy have seized my heart, And the fair face whose guides Conduct me by a plainer, shorter way To my one hope, where all my torments end.
O treasured bliss, and all from thee which flows Of peace, of war, or truce, Never abandon me while life is left! At my past loss I weep by turns and smile, Because my faith is fix'd in what I hear.
The present I enjoy and better wait; Silent, I count the years, yet crave their end, And in a lovely bough I nestle so That e'en her stern repulse I thank and praise, Which has at length o'ercome my firm desire, And inly shown me, I had been the talk, And pointed at by hand: all this it quench'd.
So much am I urged on, Needs must I own, thou wert not bold enough.
Who pierced me in my side she heals the wound, For whom in heart more than in ink I write; Who quickens me or kills, And in one instant freezes me or fires.
ANON.
[Footnote R: This, the only known version, is included simply from a wish to represent the original completely, the poem being almost untranslateable into English verse.

Italian critics are much divided as to its object.

One of the most eminent (Bembo) considers it to be nothing more than an unconnected string of proverbs.] MADRIGALE III.
_Nova angeletta sovra l' ale accorta._ HE ALLEGORICALLY DESCRIBES THE ORIGIN OF HIS PASSION.
From heaven an angel upon radiant wings, New lighted on that shore so fresh and fair, To which, so doom'd, my faithful footstep clings: Alone and friendless, when she found me there, Of gold and silk a finely-woven net, Where lay my path, 'mid seeming flowers she set: Thus was I caught, and, for such sweet light shone From out her eyes, I soon forgot to moan.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXXXIV.
_Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omai._ AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS HER EYES ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN AT FIRST.
No hope of respite, of escape no way, Her bright eyes wage such constant havoc here; Alas! excess of tyranny, I fear, My doting heart, which ne'er has truce, will slay: Fain would I flee, but ah! their amorous ray, Which day and night on memory rises clear, Shines with such power, in this the fifteenth year, They dazzle more than in love's early day.
So wide and far their images are spread That wheresoe'er I turn I alway see Her, or some sister-light on hers that fed.
Springs such a wood from one fair laurel tree, That my old foe, with admirable skill, Amid its boughs misleads me at his will.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXXXV.
_Avventuroso piu d' altro terreno._ HE APOSTROPHIZES THE SPOT WHERE LAURA FIRST SALUTED HIM.
Ah, happiest spot of earth! in this sweet place Love first beheld my condescending fair Retard her steps, to smile with courteous grace On me, and smiling glad the ambient air.
The deep-cut image, wrought with skilful care, Time shall from hardest adamant efface, Ere from my mind that smile it shall erase, Dear to my soul! which memory planted there.
Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting soil! With amorous awe I'll seek--delightful toil! Where yet some traces of her footsteps lie.
And if fond Love still warms her generous breast, Whene'er you see her, gentle friend! request The tender tribute of a tear--a sigh.
ANON.