OVERS TO FLEE, RATHER THAN BE CONSUMED BY THE FLAMES OF
LOVE.

Since my hope's fruit yet faileth to arrive,
And short the space vouchsafed me to survive,
Betimes of this aware I fain would be,
Swifter than light or wind from Love to flee:
And I do flee him, weak albeit and lame
O' my left side, where passion racked my frame.
Though now secure yet bear I on my face
Of the amorous encounter signal trace.
Wherefore I counsel each this way who comes,
Turn hence your footsteps, and, if Love consumes,
Think not in present pain his worst is done;
For, though I live, of thousand scapes not one!
'Gainst Love my enemy was strong indeed--
Lo! from his wounds e'en she is doom'd to bleed.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVIII.

_Fuggendo la prigione ov' Amor m' ebbe._

HE LONGS TO RETURN TO THE CAPTIVITY OF LOVE.

Fleeing the prison which had long detain'd,
Where Love dealt with me as to him seem'd well,
Ladies, the time were long indeed to tell,
How much my heart its new-found freedom pain'd.
I felt within I could not, so bereaved,
Live e'en a day: and, midway, on my eyes
That traitor rose in so complete disguise,
A wiser than myself had been deceived:
Whence oft I've said, deep sighing for the past,
Alas! the yoke and chains of old to me
Were sweeter far than thus released to be.
Me wretched! but to learn mine ill at last;
With what sore trial must I now forget
Errors that round my path myself have set.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIX.

_Erano i capei d' oro all' aura sparsi._

HE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE LOVE.

Loose to the breeze her golden tresses flow'd
Wildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown,
And from her eyes unconquer'd glances shone,
Those glances now so sparingly bestow'd.
And true or false, meseem'd some signs she show'd
As o'er her cheek soft pity's hue was thrown;
I, whose whole breast with love's soft food was sown,
What wonder if at once my bosom glow'd?
Graceful she moved, with more than mortal mien,
In form an angel: and her accents won
Upon the ear with more than human sound.
A spirit heavenly pure, a living sun,
Was what I saw; and if no more 'twere seen,
T' unbend the bow will never heal the wound.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Her golden tresses on the wind she threw,