Petrarch - Canzone III lyrics

WHETHER OR NOT HE SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE LAURA Green robes and red, purple, or brown, or gray No lady ever wore, Nor hair of gold in sunny tresses twined, So beautiful as she, who spoils my mind Of judgment, and from freedom's lofty path So draws me with her that I may not bear Any less heavy yoke. And if indeed at times—for wisdom fails Where martyrdom breeds doubt— The soul should ever arm it to complain Suddenly from each reinless rude desire Her smile recalls, and razes from my heart Every rash enterprise, while all disdain Is soften'd in her sight. For all that I have ever borne for love, And still am doom'd to bear, Till she who wounded it shall heal my heart, Rejecting homage e'en while she invites, Be vengeance done! but let not pride nor ire 'Gainst my humility the lovely pa** By which I enter'd bar. The hour and day wherein I oped my eyes On the bright black and white, Which drive me thence where eager love impell'd Where of that life which now my sorrow makes New roots, and she in whom our age is proud, Whom to behold without a tender awe Needs heart of lead or wood. The tear then from these eyes that frequent falls— HE thus my pale cheek bathes Who planted first within my fenceless flank Love's shaft—diverts me not from my desire; And in just part the proper sentence falls; For her my spirit sighs, and worthy she To staunch its secret wounds. Spring from within me these conflicting thoughts, To weary, wound myself, Each a sure sword against its master turn'd: Nor do I pray her to be therefore freed, For less direct to heaven all other paths, And to that glorious kingdom none can soar Certes in sounder bark. Benignant stars their bright companionship Gave to the fortunate side When came that fair birth on our nether world, Its sole star since, who, as the laurel leaf, The worth of honour fresh and fragrant keeps, Where lightnings play not, nor ungrateful winds Ever o'ersway its head. Well know I that the hope to paint in verse Her praises would but tire The worthiest hand that e'er put forth its pen: Who, in all Memory's richest cells, e'er saw Such angel virtue so rare beauty shrined, As in those eyes, twin symbols of all worth, Sweet keys of my gone heart? Lady, wherever shines the sun, than you Love has no dearer pledge. Macgregor.