by
Francesco Petrarca

Translated by John Nott

Dedication

To Richard Heber, Esquire,

Sir,

Your eminent acquirements in every branch of polite literature, and distinguished reputation, will exempt me from all suspicion of flattery, when I confess myself proud in being permitted to inscribe to you this little Volume.

I sincerely wish its merit were such as might justly entitle it to your regard: I trust, however, it will be accepted as a proof of the high esteem I bear your character; in which I know not whether to admire most, the correctness of your taste, and the extensiveness of your erudition; or that generous ardour, and liberality of spirit, which lead you to encourage every attempt towards enlarging the bounds, and facilitating the attainment of knowledge.

I am, Sir, Your very faithful and obliged servant,

The Translator.

August 1, 1808.

A Prause of Petrarcke, and of Laura his ladie.
From
Songs and Sonnets of uncertaine Auctors;

Subjoined to the Poems of Henry Howard Earl of
Surrey, and of Sir Thomas Wyat the Elder.
Richard Tottel’s Edit. 1557.

O Petrarcke, hed and prince of poets al
Whose lively gift of flowing eloquence
Wel may we seke, but finde not how or whence,
So rare a gift with thee did rise and fal,
Peace to thy bones, and glory immortall
Be to thy name, and to her excellence,
Whose beauty lighted in thy time and sence,
So to be set forth as none other shall.
Why hath not our pens rimes so parfit broughte,
Me why out time forth bringeth beauty such?
To trye our wittes as golde is by the touche,
If to the stile the matter aided ought!
But ther was never Laure more then one,
And her had Petrarcke for his paragone.

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Before I exhibit what would appear to me some of the most beautiful, and certainly some of the most esteemed Sonnets, and Odes of Petrarch, both in their original form, and in an English dress; it may not be impertinent to remark, that hitherto the celebrity of the Great Tuscan has, with the generality of his readers at least, rested entirely on his amorous, and poetical compositions: these, in Italian, consist 317 Sonnets; 49 Odes (Canzoni, some of which are denominated Sestine, Ballate, or Madrigali) and 6 Poems entitled Triumphs, or Pageants, most of them divided into Parts (Capitoli). But it ought to be understood, that they form a very inconsiderable, and, in one point of view, not the most meritorious part of his works. Petrarch was one of the first moral philosophers, that any age has produced: and the revival of letters owes as much to his taste, genius, and industry, as to those of any other individual literature has to boast. This will be in a great measure evident from a list of his works, which to the curious reader may not prove unacceptable, extracted from the Basil edition of 1581, in folio.

1. Of the Remedies against good, and bad Fortune: II Books.
2. Of Solitary Life: II Books.
3. Of the Leisure of Monastic Persons: II Books.
4. Of True Wisdom: II Dialogues.
5. Of Contempt of the World: III Dialogues.

6. On the Seven Penitential Psalms.
7. Concerning the best Administration of Government.
8. On the Duties, and Virtues of Commanders.
9. Of memorable Things: IV Books.
10. An abridgement of the Lives of illustrious Men.

11. An Exhortation to restore Peace to Italy.
12. An Oration to the ancient Defenders of the Roman State.
13. An Exhortation to attempt the recovery of Liberty.
14. Concerning the Fidelity and Obedience of Wives
15. Of the shunning Avarice.

16. An Itinerary to the Holy Land.
17. Letters on his own Affairs: VIII Books.
18. —— to some of the most illustrious of the Ancients: I Book.
19. —— without any address: I Book.
20. —— concerning his affairs in his old Age; XVI Books.

21. —— on Various Subjects: I Book.
22. On Ignorance both of one’s ownself, and others.
23. A Reply to the Invective of an anonymous Frenchman.
24. An Invective against a certain Physician: IV Books.
25. Letters relative to his obtaining the Laurel.

Petrarch wrote in Latin verse:

1. Pastoral Eclogues.
2. Africa, an Heroic Poem on the Carthaginian War: XII Books.
3. Epistles: III Books.

Besides what are published, there are extant in several libraries in Italy, and in the national library at Paris, in manuscript, many small Tracts, and a great number of Letters addressed by Petrarch to the most eminent characters of his times; which are described, by those who have consulted them, as highly curious, and interesting. Nothing is more called for, or would prove more acceptable, than a complete, and correct edition of Petrarch’s Latin works. Of the existing editions, that of 1501, by Simon de Luere, and that of Marco Origono, 1516 (dated by mistake 1416) both printed at Venice, are considered the best. The two Basil editions of 1554, and 1581, though the most common, are by far the worst: in many places, the typographical errors render entire passages inexplicable.

Sonnet I

O ye, who list in scatter’d verse the sound
Of all those sighs with which my heart I fed,
What time by youthful error first misled,
When I unlike the present man was found;

Who list the plaints, the reas’nings that abound
Throughout my song, by hopes, and vain griefs bred;
If e’er true love its influence o’er ye shed,
O let your pity be with pardon crown’d!

But now full well I see how to the crowd
For length of time I prov’d a public jest:
E’en by myself my folly is allow’d:

And of my vanity the fruit is shame,
Repentance, and a knowledge strong imprest,
That worldly pleasure is a passing dream.

Sonnet II

For many a crime at once to make me smart,
And a delicious vengeance to obtain,
Love secretly took up his bow again,
As one who acts the cunning coward’s part;

My courage had retir’d within my heart.
There to defend the pass bright eyes might gain;
When his dread archery was pour’d amain
Where blunted erst had fallen ev’ry dart.

Scar’d at the sudden brisk attack, I found
Nor time, nor vigour to repel the foe
With weapons suited to the direful need;

No kind protection of rough rising ground,
Where from defeat I might securely speed,
Which fain I would e’en now, but ah, no method know!

Sonnet III

Intemp’rance, slumber, and the slothful down
Have chas’d each virtue from this world away;
Hence is our nature nearly led astray
From its due course, by habitude o’erthrown:

Those kindly lights of heav’n so dim are grown,
Which shed o’er human life instruction’s ray;
That him with scornful wonder they survey,
Who would draw forth the stream of Helicon.

“Whom doth the laurel please, or myrtle now?
“Naked and poor, Philosophy, art thou!”
The worthless crowd, intent on lucre, cries.

Few on thy chosen road will thee attend;
Yet let it more incite thee, gentle friend,
To prosecute thy high-conceiv’d emprise.

Sonnet IV

Beneath those very hills, where beauty threw
Her mantle first o’er that earth-moulded fair,
Who oft from sleep, while shedding many a tear,
Awakens him that sends us unto you,

Our lives in peacefulness and freedom flew,
E’en as all creatures wish who hold life dear;
Nor deem’d we aught could in its course come near,
Whence to our wand’rings danger might accrue.

But from wretched state to which we’re brought,
Leaving another with sereneness fraught,
Nay, e’en from death, one comfort we obtain;

That vengeance follows him who sent us here;
Another’s utmost thraldom doom’d to bear,
Bound he now lies with a still stronger chain.

Ode I

Wherefore, my unkind fair-one, say,
Whether the sun fierce darts his ray,
Or whether gloom o’erspreads the sky,
That envious veil is ne’er thrown by;
Though well you read my heart, and knew
How much I long’d your charms to view?
While I conceal’d each tender thought,
That my fond mind’s destruction wrought,
Your face with pity sweetly shone;
But, when Love made my passion known,
Your sunny locks were seen no more,
Nor smil’d your eyes as heretofore;
Behind a jealous cloud retir’d
Those beauties which I most admir’d.

And shall a veil thus rule my fate?
O, cruel veil, that whether heat,
Or cold be felt, art doom’d to prove
Fatal to me, shadowing the lights I love!

Sonnet V

My life, sweet lady, could I but maintain
Free from all rig’rous torment, and from care,
That I might view through each declining year
Your beauteous eyes no longer bright remain;

Your locks of fine gold silver whiteness gain;
Those gay-green robes, the wreaths you wont to wear
Thrown by; and, ah, faded that face so fair,
Which makes me slow, and fearful to complain!