Lyric Poems Made in Imitation of the Italians. Of which, many are Translations From other Languages ... By Philip Ayres |
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A Sonnet, of Petrarc,
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 | Lyric Poems |  |
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A Sonnet, of Petrarc,
On the Death of Laura.
I fill with Sighs the Air when e're I stand,
On yon' high Hill, and thence survey the Plain,
Where Laura, she who could my Heart command,
Did in her Earthly Paradise remain.
On yon' high Hill, and thence survey the Plain,
Where Laura, she who could my Heart command,
Did in her Earthly Paradise remain.
For now she's dead, and left me here alone,
Griev'd for her loss, that I could gladly dye;
Drowning my Eyes in making of my Moan,
My Tears have left no space about me dry.
Griev'd for her loss, that I could gladly dye;
Drowning my Eyes in making of my Moan,
My Tears have left no space about me dry.
There is no Stone upon that craggy Hill,
Nor these sweet Fields, an Herb or Plant do bring
Nor Flower 'mongst all that do the Valleys fill,
Nor any drop of Water from the Spring;
Nor these sweet Fields, an Herb or Plant do bring
Nor Flower 'mongst all that do the Valleys fill,
Nor any drop of Water from the Spring;
Nor Beasts so wild, that in the Woods do dwell,
But of my Grief for Laura's Death can tell.
But of my Grief for Laura's Death can tell.
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