Explore "D' Un Bel, Chiaro, Polito E Vivo Ghiaccio" by Francesco Petrarca on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THOUGH RACKED BY AGONY, HE DOES NOT COMPLAIN OF HER.
The flames that ever on my bosom prey / From living ice or cold fair marble pour, / And so exhaust my veins and waste my core, / Almost insensibly I melt away.
Death, his stern arm already rear'd to slay, / As thunders angry heaven or lions roar, / Pursues my life that vainly flies before, / While I with terror shake, and mute obey.
And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they might / A double column for my succour throw / Between my worn soul and the mortal blow: / It may not be; such feelings in the sight / Of my loved foe and mistress never stir; / The fault is in my fortune, not in her.
MACGREGOR.