Sonnet LXIII.

A poem by Francesco Petrarca

Occhi, piangete; accompagnate il core.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE POET AND HIS EYES.


Playne ye, myne eyes, accompanye my harte,
For, by your fault, lo, here is death at hand!
Ye brought hym first into this bitter band,
And of his harme as yett ye felt no part;
But now ye shall: Lo! here beginnes your smart.
Wett shall you be, ye shall it not withstand
With weepinge teares that shall make dymm your sight,
And mystic clowdes shall hang still in your light.
Blame but yourselves that kyndlyd have this brand,
With suche desyre to strayne that past your might;
But, since by you the hart hath caught his harme,
His flam├Ęd heat shall sometyme make you warme.

HARRINGTON.


P. Weep, wretched eyes, accompany the heart
Which only from your weakness death sustains.
E. Weep? evermore we weep; with keener pains
For others' error than our own we smart.
P. Love, entering first through you an easy part,
Took up his seat, where now supreme he reigns.
E. We oped to him the way, but Hope the veins
First fired of him now stricken by death's dart.
P. The lots, as seems to you, scarce equal fall
'Tween heart and eyes, for you, at first sight, were
Enamour'd of your common ill and shame.
E. This is the thought which grieves us most of all;
For perfect judgments are on earth so rare
That one man's fault is oft another's blame.

MACGREGOR.

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