Mes souspirs et mes pleurs tesmoignent mon torment;
Mais mon respect m’empeche de parler.
Ah! que peine dissimuler!
Et que je souffre de martyre,
D’aimer et de n’oser le dire!
TO THE SAME AYRE IN ENGLISH, THUS,
Object adorable of charms!
My sighs and tears may testifie my harms;
But my respect forbids me to reveal.
Ah, what a pain ’tis to conceal!
And how I suffer worse then hell,
To love, and not to dare to tell!
Fast to that pirch of ivoryIn silver chaines and silken clue,Hath now made full thy victory:II.The swelling admirall of the dreadCold deepe, burnt in thy flames, oh faire!Wast not enough, but thou must leadBound, too, the Princesse of the aire?III.Unarm’d of wings and scaly oare,Unhappy crawler on the land,To what heav’n fly’st? div’st to what…
Who now her cheerful aromatick headShrinks in her cold and dismal widow’d bed;Whilst the false sun her lover doth him moveBelow, and to th’ antipodes make love.What fate was mine, when in mine obscure cave(Shut up almost close prisoner in a grave)Your beams could reach me through this vault of night,And canton the dark dungeon…
For elles of beere, flutes of canary,That well did wash downe pasties-Mary;For peason, chickens, sawces high,Pig, and the widdow-venson-pye;With certaine promise (to your brother)Of the virginity of another,Where it is thought I too may peepe inWith knuckles far as any deepe in;For glasses, heads, hands, bellies fullOf wine, and loyne right-worshipfull;Whether all of, or more…
Her soul’s faire picture, her faire soul’s, in allSo truely copied from th’ originall,That you will sweare her body by this lawIs but its shadow, as this, its;–now draw.
Chloris, the gentlest sheapherdesse,That ever lawnes and lambes did blesse;Her breath, like to the whispering winde,Was calme as thought, sweet as her minde;Her lips like coral gates kept inThe perfume and the pearle within;Her eyes a double-flaming torchThat alwayes shine, and never scorch;Her selfe the Heav’n in which did meetThe all of bright, of faire…
Et substracta sibi quaereret arma dolor,Nondum scitis, ait, mortem non posse negari,Credideram satis hoc vos docuisse patrem.Dixit, et ardentes avido bibit ore favillas.I nunc, et ferrum turba molesta nega.IN ENGLISH.When Portia her dear lord’s sad fate did hear,And noble grief sought arms were hid from her:Know you not yet no hinderance of death is,Cato, I…
