Sonnet XXII
SONNET XXII.
Più di me lieta non si vede a terra.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Than me more joyful never reach'd the shoreA vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,More glad than me, that weapon laid asideWhich to my lord hostility long bore.All ye who honour love in poet strain,To the good minstrel of the amorous layReturn due praise, though once he went astray;For greater glory is, in Heaven's blest reign,Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,Than e'en for ninety-nine of perfect ways.