Sonnet CLXX.

A poem by Francesco Petrarca

Lasso, ch' i' ardo, ed altri non mel crede!


Alas, with ardour past belief I glow!
None doubt this truth, except one only fair,
Who all excels, for whom alone I care;
She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.
O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thou
Look in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?
Were I not fated by my baleful star,
For me from pity's fount might favour flow.
My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,
And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,
O'er many a breast may future influence spread:
These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,
Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,
E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught.


Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gain
All others credit it save only she
All others who excels, alone for me;
She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plain
Infinite beauty, little faith and slow,
Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?
Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,
From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.
Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,
And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,
May thousands yet inflame in after times;
These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,
Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,
Shall lighten other loves and live in death.


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