Sonnet CLXXII.

A poem by Francesco Petrarca

Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.


Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,
Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;
Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,
That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.
Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;
And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fill
With the sweet honour blend of loving still
Her whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."
Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:
"For that high-boasted beauty of his day
Enough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.
Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, why
Could not these eyes that lovely form survey?
Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"

NOTT.


Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,
Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,
Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!
That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.
Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;
And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to share
Blend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greet
In these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"
Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,
"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,
For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"
While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,
Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?
Why was she born so soon, or I so late?"

ANON. 1777.