Francesco Petrarca (July 20 1304 – July 19 1374)
XXI
Mille fïate, o dolce mia guerrera, 
per aver co’ begli occhi vostri pace
v’aggio proferto il cor; mâ voi non piace
mirar sí basso colla mente altera.
Et se di lui fors’altra donna spera,5
vive in speranza debile et fallace:
mio, perché sdegno ciò ch’a voi dispiace,
esser non può già mai cosí com’era.
Or s’io lo scaccio, et e’ non trova in voi
ne l’exilio infelice alcun soccorso,10
né sa star sol, né gire ov’altri il chiama,
poria smarrire il suo natural corso:
che grave colpa fia d’ambeduo noi,
et tanto piú de voi, quanto piú v’ama.
21
A thousand times, O my warrior, my sweet, 
That I might your beauteous eyes appease,
Gave I my heart cheap, although it failed to please
Nor turned you your lofty mind on aught so low.
But if some other one should it await
She lives in falsity and weakened hope
For all that might displease you do I scorn
And never more could it be as it was.
Should I to disown my heart, and it not find
Help or refuge in you from sad exile,
Not know to stay alone, or turn to others’ calls,
Misplaced, and straying from its wonted course.
For such a fault a price we both would pay,
And you the greater part, for more it loved.
CLXIV
Or che’l ciel e la terra e’l vento tace, 
e le fere e gli augelli il sonno affrena,
notte il carro stellato in giro mena
e nel suo letto il mar senz’onda giace;
vegghio, penso, ardo, piango; e chi mi sface
sempre m’è inanzi per mia dolce pena:
guerra è’l mio stato, d’ira et di duol piena;
et sol di lei pensando ò qualche pace.
Così sol d’una chiara fonte viva
move’l dolce e l’amaro ond’io mi pasco;
una man sola mi risana e punge.
Et perché’l mio martir non giunga a riva,
mille volte il dí moro e mille nasco;
tanto da la salute mia son lunge.
164
Now that the sky, the earth, and wind are quiet, 
And the wild beasts and birds are seized by sleep,
Night leads its starry chariot on its rounds,
And in its bed the waveless sea lies still.
I see, think, burn and cry, by her undone
Who always is before me, to my sweet pain.
I’m in a state of war, and anger, filled with woe,
And only thoughts of her bring any peace.
Thus from one sole clear font do live and move
The sweet and bitter, whereupon I feast.
The self-same hand both pierces and heals.
Such is my torment, the shore I cannot reach,
Die and am born a thousand times, each day –
From any chance reprieve, so far away.
CLXXVI
Per mezz’i boschi inhospiti et selvaggi, 
onde vanno a gran rischio uomini et arme,
vo securo io, ché non pò spaventarme
altri che ‘l sol ch’à d’amor vivo i raggi;
5et vo cantando (o penser’ miei non saggi!)
lei che ‘l ciel non poria lontana farme,
ch’i’ l’ò negli occhi, et veder seco parme
donne et donzelle, et son abeti et faggi.
Parme d’udirla, udendo i rami et l’òre
10et le frondi, et gli augei lagnarsi, et l’acque
mormorando fuggir per l’erba verde.
Raro un silentio, un solitario horrore
d’ombrosa selva mai tanto mi piacque:
se non che dal mio sol troppo si perde.
176
Amidst unwelcoming and savage woods I go 
Secure, where armed men venture at great risk
Naught can occasion me the slightest dread
Save the sun, drawing from love its vibrant rays.
And I go singing (O my so foolish thoughts)
She from whom heaven could not outdistance me
I have within my eyes. To me they seem
As Beech and Fir, the women and girls I see.
I seem to hear her, as I hear the breeze
In branch and leaf, and the lamenting birds,
The water murmurs, slips through verdant grass.
Rare that such silence, and such lonely dread
Of shaded woods should ever so me please,
But of the sun for me too much is lost
Translations Dia Tsung
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