Written by
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz |
My Lady (Español)
Perdite, señora, quiero
de mi silencio perdón,
si lo que ha sido atención
le hace parecer grosero.
Y no me podrás culpar
si hasta aquí mi proceder,
por ocuparse en querer,
se ha olvidado de explicar.
Que en mi amorosa pasión
no fue desuido, ni mengua,
quitar el uso a la lengua
por dárselo al corazón.
Ni de explicarme dejaba:
que, como la pasión mía
acá en el alma te vía,
acá en el alma te hablaba.
Y en esta idea notable
dichosamenta vivía,
porque en mi mano tenia
el fingirte favorable.
Con traza tan peregrina
vivió mi esperanza vana,
pues te pudo hacer humana
concibiéndote divina.
¡Oh, cuán loca llegué a verme
en tus dichosos amores,
que, aun fingidos, tus favroes
pudieron enloquecerme!
¡Oh, cómo, en tu sol hermoso
mi ardiente afecto encendido,
por cebarse en lo lucido,
olvidó lo peligroso!
Perdona, si atrevimiento
fue atreverme a tu ardor puro;
que no hay sagrado seguro
de culpas de pensamiento.
De esta manera engañaba
la loca esperanza mía,
y dentro de mí tenía
todo el bien que deseaba.
Mas ya tu precepto grave
rompe mi silencio mudo;
que él solamente ser pudo
de mi respeto la llave.
Y aunque el amar tu belleza
es delito sin disculpa
castígueseme la culpa
primero que la tibieza.
No quieras, pues, rigurosa,
que, estando ya declarada,
sea de veras desdichada
quien fue de burlas dichosa.
Si culpas mi desacato,
culpa también tu licencia;
que si es mala mi obediencia,
no fue justo tu mandato
Y si es culpable mi intento,
será mi afecto precito,
porque es amarte un delito
de que nunca me arrepiento.
Esto en mis afectos hallo,
y más, que explicar no sé;
mas tú, de lo que callé,
inferirás lo que callo.
Top of page
My Lady (English)
My lady, I must implore
forgiveness for keeping still,
if what I meant as tribute
ran contrary to your will.
Please do not reproach me
if the course I have maintained
in the eagerness of my love
left my silence unexplained.
I love you with so much passion,
neither rudeness nor neglect
can explain why I tied my tongue,
yet left my heart unchecked.
The matter to me was simple:
love for you was so strong,
I could see you in my soul
and talk to you all day long.
With this idea in mind,
I lived in utter delight,
pretending my subterfuge
found favor in your sight.
In this strange, ingenious fashion,
I allowed the hope to be mine
that I still might see as human
what I really conceived as divine.
Oh, how mad I became
in my blissful love of you,
for even though feigned, your favor
made all my madness seem true!
How unwisely my ardent love,
which your glorious sun inflamed,
sought to feed upon your brightness,
though the risk of your fire was plain!
Forgive me if, thus emboldened,
I made bold with that sacred fire:
there's no sanctuary secure
when thought's transgressions conspire.
Thus it was I kept indulging
these foolhardy hopes of mine,
enjoying within myself
a happiness sublime.
But now, at your solemn bidding,
this silence I herewith suspend,
for your summons unlocks in me
a respect no time can end.
And, although loving your beauty
is a crime beyond repair,
rather the crime be chastised
than my fervor cease to dare.
With this confession in hand,
I pray, be less stern with me.
Do not condemn to distress
one who fancied bliss so free.
If you blame me for disrespect,
remember, you gave me leave;
thus, if obedience was wrong,
your commanding must be my reprieve.
Let my love be ever doomed
if guilty in its intent,
for loving you is a crime
of which I will never repent.
This much I descry in my feelings--
and more that I cannot explain;
but you, from what I've not said,
may infer what words won't contain.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXVI. Già fiammeggiava l' amorosa stella. LAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND ASSURES HIM THAT SHE STILL LIVES. Throughout the orient now began to flameThe star of love; while o'er the northern skyThat, which has oft raised Juno's jealousy,Pour'd forth its beauteous scintillating beam:Beside her kindled hearth the housewife dame,Half-dress'd, and slipshod, 'gan her distaff ply:And now the wonted hour of woe drew nigh,That wakes to tears the lover from his dream:When my sweet hope unto my mind appear'd,Not in the custom'd way unto my sight;For grief had bathed my lids, and sleep had weigh'd;Ah me, how changed that form by love endear'd!"Why lose thy fortitude?" methought she said,"These eyes not yet from thee withdraw their light." Nott. Already in the east the amorous starIllumined heaven, while from her northern heightGreat Juno's rival through the dusky nightHer beamy radiance shot. Returning careHad roused th' industrious hag, with footstep bare,And loins ungirt, the sleeping fire to light;And lovers thrill'd that season of despight,Which wont renew their tears, and wake despair.[Pg 37]When my soul's hope, now on the verge of fate,(Not by th' accustomed way; for that in sleepWas closed, and moist with griefs,) attain'd my heart.Alas, how changed! "Servant, no longer weep,"She seem'd to say; "resume thy wonted state:Not yet thine eyes from mine are doom'd to part." Charlemont. Already, in the east, the star of loveWas flaming, and that other in the north,Which Juno's jealousy is wont to move,Its beautiful and lustrous rays shot forth;Barefooted and half clad, the housewife oldHad stirr'd her fire, and set herself to weave;Each tender heart the thoughtful time controll'dWhich evermore the lover wakes to grieve,When my fond hope, already at life's last,Came to my heart, not by the wonted way,Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast—Alas! how changed—and said, or seem'd to say,"Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse,Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?" Macgregor.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXVIII. S' una fede amorosa, un cor non finto. THE MISERY OF HIS LOVE. If faith most true, a heart that cannot feign,If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought,And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught,If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain,If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear,Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw,Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe,If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear,If than myself to hold one far more dear,If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow,Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe,In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,—If these be ills in which I waste my prime,Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime. Dacre. [Pg 201] If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,By melting languors the soft wish betray'd;If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd;If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;If every thought in every feature shown,Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd,As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'dIn violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown;If more than self another to hold dear;If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,—If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise,Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine. Wrangham.
|