O life of oars, so lovely to behold,
In one brief mom how easily dost thou spill
That which we toiled for years to gain and hold !
IN MOBTE. XLIII.
Yon nightingale who mooms so plaintively
Perchance his fledglings or his darling mate,
Fills sky and earth with sweetness, warbling late.
Prophetic notes of melting melody.
All night, he, as it were, companions me,
Reminding me of my so cruel fate,
Mourning no other grief save mine own state.
Who knew not Death reigned o'er divinity.
How easy 'tis to dupe the soul secure !
Those two fair lamps, even than the sun more bright.
Who ever dreamed to see turn clay obscure ?
But Fortune has ordained, I now am sure.
That I, midst lifelong tears, should learn aright.
Naught here can make us happy, or endure.
IN VITA. CANZONE XI.
O waters fresh and sweet and clear,
Where bathed her lovely frame.
Who seems the only lady unto me ;
O gentle branch and dear,
(Sighing I speak thy name,)
Thou column for her shapely thighs, her supple knee ;
