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 Tomasso, 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;
Laelius and Socrates, with whom I may
A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair
Of dear esteemed 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 despera