Posts Tagged ‘Geoffrey Chaucer’

Francesco Petrarca (July 20 1304 – July 19 1374)

















Canzoniere 132

















(S’amor non è)

S’amor non è, che dunque é què i’ sénto?                  
Ma s’ègli é amór, per Dio, che cósa, e quale?
Se buòna, ond’ é ‘l èffettó aspro e mortale?
Se ria; ond’ é sí dolce ògni tormènto?

S’ a mia vóglia ardo; ónd’ è ‘l pianto e ‘l lamènto!
S’ a mal mio grado’; il lamentar che vale?
O viva mórte, o dilettòso male,
Còme puói tanto in mè, s’io nòl cónsénto?

E s’io ‘l cònsénto; a gran tórto mi dóglio.
Fra sè contrári vénti in fragil barca
Mi tróve in alto mar senza govérno.
Sí liéve di savèr, d’erròr di carca,
Ch’ i’ medèsmo nòn só quèl ch’ io mi vòglio;
E trémo a mézza state, ardéndo il vérno.

Francesco Petrarca
















Geoffrey Chaucer (c.1343 - 25 October 1400)



















Troilus and Criseyde



















If Love it’s not, O God, what feel I so?  

If Love it is, what sort of thing is he?
If Love be good, from where then comes my woe?
If he be ill, wondrous it seems to me
That every torment and adversity
That comes from him I can so joyous think;
For more I thirst, the more from him I drink.

If it is in my own delight I burn,
From where then comes my wailing and complaint?
Rejoicing, why to tears do I return?
I know not, nor, unweary, why I faint.
Oh living death, oh sweet harm strange and quaint!
How can this harm and death so rage in me,
Unless I do consent that it so be?



And if I do consent, I wrongfully                      
Bewail my case; thus rolled and shaken sore
All rudderless within a boat am I
Amid the sea and out of sight of shore,
Between two winds contrary evermore.
Alas, what is this wondrous malady?
For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.

Geoffrey Chaucer





















If no love is, O God, what fele I so?                                    
And if love is, what thing and which is he?
If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?
If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me,
When every torment and adversite
That cometh of hym, may to me savory thinke,
For ay thurst I, the more that ich it drynke.

And if that at myn owen lust I brenne,
From whennes cometh my waillynge and my pleynte?
If harm agree me, whereto pleyne I thenne?
I noot, ne whi unwery that I feynte.
O quike deth, O swete harm so queynte,
How may of the in me swich quantite,
But if that I consente that it be?


And if that I consente, I wrongfully                
Compleyne, iwis.   Thus possed to and fro,
Al sterelees withinne a boot am I
Amydde the see, betwixen wyndes two,
That in contrarie stonden evere mo.
Allas! what is this wondre maladie?
For hete of cold, for cold of hete, I dye.






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