Sonnet CLXIX.

A poem by Francesco Petrarca

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.

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