Petrarch - Poscia che mia fortuna in forza altrui lyrics

When once my will was captive by my fate, And I had lost the liberty, which late Made my life happy; I, who used before To flee from Love (as fearful deer abhor The following huntsman), suddenly became (Like all my fellow-servants) calm and tame; And view'd the travails, wrestlings, and the smart, The crooked by-paths, and the cozening art That guides the amorous flock: then whilst mine eye I cast in every corner, to espy Some ancient or modern who had proved Famous, I saw him, who had only loved Eurydice, and found out hell, to call Her dear ghost back; he named her in his fall For whom he died. Aleæus there was known, Skilful in love and verse: Anacreon, Whose muse sung nought but love: Pindarus, he Was also there: there I might Virgil see: Many brave wits I found, some looser rhymes, By others writ, hath pleased the ancient times: Ovid was one: after Catullus came: Propertius next, his elegies the name Of Cynthia bear: Tibullus, and the young Greek poetess, who is received among The noble troop for her rare Sapphic muse. Thus looking here and there (as oft I use), I spied much people on a flowery plain, Amongst themselves disputes of love maintain. Behold Beatrice with Dante; Selvaggia, she Brought her Pistoian Cino; Guitton may be Offended that he is the latter named: Behold both Guidos for their learning famed: Th' honest Bolognian: the Sicilians first Wrote love in rhymes, but wrote their rhymes the worst. Franceschin and Sennuccio (whom all know) Were worthy and humane: after did go A squadron of another garb and phrase, Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise, Great master in Love's art, his style, as new As sweet, honours his country: next, a few Whom Love did lightly wound: both Peters made Two: one, the less Arnaldo: some have had A harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th' one Sung Beatrice, though her quality was known Too much above his reach in Montferrat. Alvernia's old Piero, and Girault: Folchetto, who from Genoa was estranged And call'd Marsilian, he wisely changed His name, his state, his country, and did gain In all: Jeffray made haste to catch his bane With sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sung That pleasing art, was cause he died so young. Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and Anselm Were there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helm, Shield, sword, and spear, all their offensive arms, And their defensive to prevent their harms. From those I turn'd, comparing my own woe, To view my country-folks; and there might know The good Toma**o, who did once adorn Bologna, now Messina holds his urn. Ah, vanish'd joys! Ah, life too full of bane! How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly ta'en! Since without thee nothing is in my power To do, where art thou from me at this hour? What is our life? If aught it bring of ease, A sick man's dream, a fable told to please. Some few there from the common road did stray; Lælius and Socrates, with whom I may A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair Of dear esteemèd friends to me they were! 'Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise; Neither of these can naked virtue raise Above her own true place: with them I have Reach'd many heights; one yoke of learning gave Laws to our steps, to them my fester'd wound I oft have show'd; no time or place I found To part from them; and hope, and wish we may Be undivided till my breath decay: With them I used (too early) to adorn My head with th' honour'd branches, only worn For her dear sake I did so deeply love, Who fill'd my thoughts; but ah! I daily prove, No fruit nor leaves from thence can gather'd be: The root hath sharp and bitter been to me. For this I was accustomed much to vex, But I have seen that which my anger checks: (A theme for buskins, not a comic stage) She took the God, adored by the rage Of such dull fools as he had captive led: But first, I'll tell you what of us he made; Then, from her hand what was his own sad fate, Which Orpheus or Homer might relate. His winged coursers o'er the ditches leapt, And we their way as desperately kept, Till he had reached where his mother reigns, Nor would he ever pull or turn the reins; But scour'd o'er woods and mountains; none did care Nor could discern in what strange world they were. Beyond the place, where old Ægeus mourns, An island lies, Phœbus none sweeter burns, Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore: About the midst a beauteous hill, with store Of shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a spring As drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bring Venus much joy; 't was given her deity, Ere blind man knew a truer god than she: Of which original it yet retains Too much, so little goodness there remains, That it the vicious doth only please, Is by the virtuous shunn'd as a disease. Here this fine Lord insulteth o'er us all Tied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges' fall. Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms; Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms: Repentance swiftly following to annoy: (Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy) All that whole valley with the echoes rung Of running brooks, and birds that gently sung: The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green, Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen; And gliding streams amongst the tender gra**, Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place. After when winter maketh sharp the air, Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheer Enthrall low minds. Now th' equinox hath made The day t' equal the night; and Progne had With her sweet sister, each their old task ta'en: (Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!) Just in the time, and place, and in the hour When humble tears should earthly joys devour, It pleased him, whom th' vulgar honour so, To triumph over me; and now I know What miserable servitude they prove, What ruin, and what d**h, that fall in love. Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair, False fancies o'er the door, and on the stair Are slippery hopes, unprofitable gain, And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain, As who descend, may boast their fortune best; Who most ascend, most fall: a wearied rest, And resting trouble, glorious disgrace; A duskish and obscure illustriousness; Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith, That nimble fury, lazy reason hath: A prison, whose wide ways do all receive, Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave: A steep descent, by which we slide with ease, But find no hold our crawling steps to raise: Within confusion, turbulence, annoy Are mix'd; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy: Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell; Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel, Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke: He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke. Thus were we all throng'd in so strait a cage, I changed my looks and hair, before my age, Dreaming on liberty (by strong desire My soul made apt to hope), and did admire Those gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe (My heart within my breast dissolved like snow Before the sun), as one would side-ways cast His eye on pictures, which his feet hath pa**'d. Anna Hume.