Petrarch (1304-1374), Rime 140
Love, who reigns in my thought and keeps his
principal seat in my heart, comes like an armed
warrior into my forehead, there places himself
and there sets up his banner. She who teaches
me to love and to suffer and who wishes that
reason, modesty and reverence should restrain
my great desire and burning hope, thrusts aside
and disdains our ardour. Wherefore Love in
terror flies to my heart, abandoning all his
enterprise, and laments and trembles; there
he hides himself and no more appears without.
What can I do, when my lord is afraid, except
stay with him until the last hour? For he makes
a fine end who dies loving well.
Prose translation from the original Italian by Patrick Cruttwell, The English Sonnet (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1966), p. 9.
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
| The long love that in my thought I harbour, | ||
| And in mine heart doth keep his residence, | ||
| Into my face presseth with bold pretence, | ||
| And therein campeth displaying his banner. | ||
5 |
She that me learneth to love and to suffer, | |
| And wills that my trust, and lust’s negligence | ||
| Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence, | ||
| With his hardiness takes displeasure. | ||
| Wherewith love to the heart’s forest he fleeth, | ||
10 |
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, | |
| And there him hideth, and not appeareth | ||
| What may I do, when my master feareth, | ||
| But in the field with him to live and die? | ||
| For good is the life, ending faithfully. |
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)
Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, |
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That built his seat within my captive breast; |
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Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, |
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Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. |
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5 |
She, that taught me to love, and suffer pain; |
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My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire |
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With shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain, |
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Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire. |
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And coward Love then to the heart apace |
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10 |
Taketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plains |
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His purpose lost, and dare not shew his face. |
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For my Lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pains. |
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Yet from my Lord shall not my foot remove: |
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Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love. |
John Donne (1572-1631)
“A Valediction Forbidding Mourning”
As virtuous men pass mildly away, |
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And whisper to their souls to go, |
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Whilst some of their sad friends do say, |
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“Now his breath goes,” and some say, “No.” |
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5 |
So let us melt, and make no noise, |
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No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; |
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’Twere profanation of our joys |
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To tell the laity our love. |
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Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears; |
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10 |
Men reckon what it did, and meant; |
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But trepidation of the spheres, |
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Though greater far, is innocent. |
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Dull sublunary lovers’ love—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit |
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15 |
Of absence, ’cause it doth remove |
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The thing which elemented it. |
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But we by a love so much refined, |
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That ourselves know not what it is, |
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Inter-assurèd of the mind, |
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20 |
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. |
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Our two souls therefore, which are one, |
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Though I must go, endure not yet |
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A breach, but an expansion, |
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Like gold to aery thinness beat. |
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25 |
If they be two, they are two so |
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As stiff twin compasses are two; |
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Thy soul, the fix’d foot, makes no show |
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To move, but doth, if th’ other do. |
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And though it in the centre sit, |
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30 |
Yet, when the other far doth roam, |
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It leans, and hearkens after it, |
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And grows erect, as that comes home. |
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Such wilt thou be to me, who must, |
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Like th’ other foot, obliquely run; |
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35 |
Thy firmness makes my circle just, |
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And makes me end where I begun. |