Джон Вулкотт (John Wolcot)

To a Lady, with the Sonnets of Petrarch. In the Manner of Spencer

O gentle nymph, of Cornish lond the Queen,
Whom all our youth behold with rap'rous love;
Whose heart eclipseth e'en they beauty's sheen,
Read Petrarch's sorrows, and with tears approve:
A tear from thee, surpassing all his fame,
Embalms with immortality his name.

At Petrarch's fate the heart with grief mote glow,
Who frequent woo'd the Fair but woo'd in vain;
Thy Turtle even in streams will certes flow
At sorrows, that for peerless Laura plain,
When pale entomb'd, her lovely limbs were laid,
And redbreasts sooth'd with ditties sweet her shade.

Rash bard! what folly taught thine eyen to gaze
On her, who ne'er could bless thy longing arms?
What daemon urg'd thee, 'midst her beauty's blaze,
Bereft of smallest hope, to win her charms?
Well did thine heart deserve sic mickle woes,
That lost in wild romaunce its dear repose.

Yet, Petrarch! like thyself, a bard betray'd
By smiles of Beauty, Wisdom's voice I slight;
Hopeless I glore upon so fair a maid,
As ever charm'd the golden eye of light.
Then let me blame no more thy lovelorn line,
Perchaunce thy Laura mote compare with mine!

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