Poems from Petrarch's Canzoniere
Page 2

il vecchierel canuto et biancho
del dolce loco ov'Ó sua etÓ fornita
et da la famigliuola sbigottita
che vede il caro padre venir manco;
indi trahendo poi l'antiquo fianco
per l'extreme giornate di sua vita,
quanto pi˙ p˛, col buon voler s'aita,
rotto dagli anni, et dal cammino stanco;

et viene a Roma, seguendo 'l desio,
per mirar la sembianza di colui
ch'ancor lass˙ nel ciel vedere spera:
cosÝ, lasso, talor vo cerchand'io,
donna, quanto Ŕ possibile, in altrui
la dis´ata vostra forma vera.
poor old man, arising gray and pale,
Deserts his gentle hearth and quiet sleep,
And leaves the loving family, who weep
And tremble as they see their father fail;
Who, on his wasted limbs, infirm and frail,
Through his final days begins to creep,
His only strength a steady will to keep
From falling down along the weary trail;

And comes to Rome, following a desire
To seek the likeness which in little time
He hopes to see again on heaven's throne.
Ah! Lady, thus sometimes I too aspire,
And seeking other gazes try to find
The true and blessed image of your own.

Son animali al mondo de sÝ altera
vista che 'ncontra 'l sol pur si difende;
altri, per˛ che 'l gran lume gli offende,
non escon fuor se non verso la sera;
et altri, col desio folle che spera
gioir forse nel foco, perchÚ splende,
provan l'altra vert˙, quella che 'encende:
lasso, e 'l mio loco Ŕ 'n questa ultima schera.

Ch'i' non son forte ad aspectar la luce
di questa donna, et non so fare schermi
di luoghi tenebrosi, o d' ore tarde:
per˛ con gli occhi lagrimosi e 'nfermi
mio destino a vederla mi conduce;
et so ben ch'i' vo dietro a quel che m'arde.

Some fowls there be that have so perfect sight
Again the sun their eyes for to defend;
And some because the light doth them offend
Do never 'pear but in the dark or night.
Other rejoice that see the fire bright
And ween to play in it, as they do pretend,
And find the contrary of it that they intend.
Alas, of that sort I may be by right,

For to withstand her look I am not able
And yet can I not hide me in no dark place,
Remembrance so followeth me of that face.
So that with teary eyen, swollen and unstable,
My destiny to behold her doth me lead,
Yet do I know I run into the gleed.

- Sir Thomas Wyatt

Mille f´ate, o dolce mia guerrera,
per aver co' begli occhi vostri pace
v'aggio proferto il cor; mÔ voi non piace
mirar sÝ basso colla mente altera.
Et se di lui fors'altra donna spera,
vive in speranza debile et fallace:
mio, perchÚ sdegno ci˛ ch'a voi dispiace,
esser non pu˛ giÓ mai cosÝ com'era.

Or s'io lo scaccio, et e' non trova in voi
ne l'exilio infelice alcun soccorso,
nÚ sa star sol, nÚ gire ov'altri il chiama,
poria smarrire il suo natural corso
che grave colpa fia d'ambeduo noi,
et tanto pi˙ de voi, quanto pi˙ v'ama.

How oft have I, my dear and cruel foe,
With those your eyes for to get peace and truce
Proffered you mine heart! But you do not use
Among so high things to cast your mind so low.
If any other look for it, as ye trow,
Their vain weak hope doth greatly them abuse.
And thus I disdain that that ye refuse:
It was once mine, it can no more be so.

If I then it chase, nor it in you can find
In this exile no manner of comfort,
Nor live alone, nor, where he is called, resort,
He may wander from his natural kind.
So shall it be great hurt unto us twain
And yours the loss and mine the deadly pain.

- Sir Thomas Wyatt