Sonnet CLXVIII.

A poem by Francesco Petrarca

Mia ventura ed Amor m' avean sì adorno.

HE REGRETS HAVING RETURNED HER GLOVE.


Me Love and Fortune then supremely bless'd!
Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore!
I seem'd to reach of utmost bliss the crest,
Musing within myself on her who wore.
Ne'er on that day I think, of days the best,
Which made me rich, then beggar'd as before,
But rage and sorrow fill mine aching breast.
With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er;
That on my precious prize in time of need
I kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand
'Gainst what at best was merely angel force,
That my feet were not wings their flight to speed,
And so at last take vengeance on the hand,
Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.

MACGREGOR.

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