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Poem	SONNET XXXVI. Mentre che 'l cor dagli amorosi vermi. HAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILY. While on my heart the worms consuming prey'dOf Love, and I with all his fire was caught;The steps of my fair wild one still I soughtTo trace o'er desert mountains as she stray'd;And much I dared in bitter strains to upbraidBoth Love and her, whom I so cruel thought;But rude was then my genius, and untaughtMy rhymes, while weak and new the ideas play'd.Dead is that fire; and cold its ashes lieIn one small tomb; which had it still grown onE'en to old age, as oft by others felt,Arm'd with the power of rhyme, which wretched IE'en now disclaim, my riper strains had wonE'en stones to burst, and in soft sorrows melt. Anon., Ox., 1795.
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