11. Madrigale /Madrigal
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How much less pain would quick death be
than a thousand deaths supported hour by hour from one, who for my love, would have that I expire! O, what infinite pain my heart feels, when it turns in thought to one I so much love to love, but who feels naught! How will I come to life again? Instead she says, to give more pain to me, she does not love herself: and so it seems to me. How may I hope to cause her grief, if she does not love herself? Sad fate, O! Shall I take my death of it, if so? |
12. Madrigale /Madrigal
13. Inscription found in a sketch on the base of the sarcophagi of, “The Two Magnificents,” Lorenzo and Giulano de’ Medici.
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Fame has the epitaphs laid out; it goes neither forwards nor back, because they have died, and their works are finished.
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14. Prose text - thought variously to be an inscription for the Medici chappel of San Lorenzo, a species of prose poem, the explication in prose of a poem, which has been lost, or points taken down in haste for later treatment in meter and verse.
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The Day and the Night speak and say: “We have, with our quick course, conducted the Duke, Giuliano, to death; it is well justified that because of this he worked revenge as he has. And the revenge is this: that he, thus dead, has taken the light from us, who have killed him, and he has shut ours with his closed eyes, which shine no more over the earth. What, then, might he have made of us, when living?
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15. Madrigale /Madrigal
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For you I watch and from a distance I am lured
to approach heaven, whence I derive, and by the nature of the bait, at you arrive, as fish by the line, drawn to the lure. And because one heart among two, small sign lends of life, indeed both parts are given you, by which I remain, you know, much as I am, not higher. And as one soul subject to two to the worthier condescends, I have been, indeed I want to be always, forced to love you, for I am only wood and you are wood and fire. |
16. Distacco isolato /Isolated distich
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Of a fair, pilgrim object,
of a fount of pity are my troubles born. |
17. Sketch of a sonnet
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Cruel, unripe and pitiless heart,
dressed in sweet and filled with bitterness, your faith is born of the time and lasts less than when sweet, false spring makes no one’s flowers start. Time moves and shares the hours out into our lives, awful and poisonous, he like a sickle and we are as dry grass. . . . . . . . . . . . Faith is short and beauty does not endure, but it seems you wear yourself out equally, as if your sin wished some of my injuries, too. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . forever between us, with all the years, we do. |
18. Probable Fragment
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A thousand remedies in vain the soul attempts:
because I had been quick on the ancient road of return by futile arguments. Sea and mountain and fire with sword: in the midst of all these together, I live. He disallows me from the mountain, who deprived me of my intellect and took off reason. |
19. Madrigale /Madrigal
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Nature’s every art,
made for woman or for maiden, had been to learn, until this one, who today burns me in a moment and chills the heart. Then for my aching part, there never was a sadder being: the anguish and the woe and weeping –to the stronger cause, effect in greater measure. Thus it is in pleasure there never was nor will be one merrier than me. |
20. Rustic Song: Continuing Respect
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You have a face sweeeter than must of the grape,
and you surpass, it seems, the snail on a trip you glisten so well, even finer than a rape; and teeth as white as any parsnip in such a way as to inveghile your Pap; and eyes of the color of medicinal dip, and hair blonde as leeks and white, which is more: so then I die, if you don’t give me succor. Your beauty seems much more beautiful than what a man in church might outline: your mouth, to me it seems a pocketful of kidney beans, just like mine; your tinted brows, the frying pan made full and they twist more than any arch that’s Syrian; your cheeks are red and white, as when meal’s sifted; like red-weed poppies, between fresh cheese lifted. When I look at you, up at each breast I gape, to me they’re two watermellons in a sack, then I flame up, like wadding, completely, by heck. Although from the hoe I may be broken and strapped, think– as you still have a beautiful neck, I’d trace you better than a hound through the pack: if what I’ve done with rocks has been possible, I'd do here today things that're incredible. |