Posts tagged ‘1530’

Tuesday, 12 March 2019

Some Day, Some Day by Cristóbal de Castillejo

Some day, some day
O troubled breast,
Shalt thou find rest.
If Love in thee
To grief give birth,
Six feet of earth
Can more than he;
There calm and free
And unoppressed
Shalt thou find rest.
The unattained
In life at last,
When life is passed
Shall all be gained;
And no more pained,
No more distressed,
Shalt thou find rest.


Date: c1530 (original in Spanish); 1873 (translation in English)

By: Cristóbal de Castillejo (1491-1556)

Translated by: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Wednesday, 30 January 2019

Brilliant and Lovely Eyes by Veronica Gambara

Brilliant and lovely eyes
How can it be that in one single instant
You give birth to so many varied moods?

Happy and sad, exalted, humble, proud—
You shine forth in a flash, in which, with hope
And fear you fill me full,
And many other sweet effects—bitter and wild—
All come together in a heart on fire
With you, when you desire.

Now that you are both life and death to me,
O joyful eyes, O blessed eyes and dear,
Be evermore serene, happy and clear.

From: Stortoni, Laura Anna and Lillie, Mary Prentice (eds. and transls.), Women Poets of the Italian Renaissance: Courtly Ladies and Courtesans, 1997, Italica Press: New York, p. 33.

Date: c1530 (original in Italian); 1997 (translation in English)

By: Veronica Gambara (1485-1550)

Translated by: Laura Anna Stortoni (1942- ) and Mary Prentice Lillie Barrows (1906-1998)

Friday, 19 May 2017

The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness of His Love by George Boleyn

My Lute awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun!
And when this song is sung and rest,
My Lute be still, for I have done!

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection:
So that I am past remedy;
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts through Love’s shot,
By whom (unkind!) thou has them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy distain
That mak’st but game on earnest pain:
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lover’s plain
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie wither’d and old
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon:
Thy wishes then dare not be told,
Care then who list, for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent,
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want, as I have done.

Now cease my lute: this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun;
Now is this song both sung and past;
My lute be still, for I have done.


Date: c1530

By: George Boleyn (c1503-1536)

Wednesday, 28 September 2016

Excerpt from “The Castell of Pleasure” by William Neville with rough rendering into almost modern English by flusteredduck

Phebus set on pryde and hault in corage
Spake these wordes of grete audacyte
Cupyde thou boy of yonge and tender aege
How mayst thou be so bolde to compare with me
These arowes becomes me as thou mayst clerely se
Wherwith I maye wounde bothe man and beste
And for that at all creatures be subgect to the
So moche is thy power lesse than myn at eche feste
Well well sayd cupyde it lyketh you to geste
This sayd he assended to the mount pernassus
On the hyght his armes shortly abrode he keste
And sayd I trust I shall this in haste dyscusse.

For a profe he toke forth of his arowy quyver
A golden darte with love ryght penytrable
Made sharpe at the poynt that it myght enter
With it he stroke phebus with a stroke ryght lamentable
It to resyste he was weyke and unable
The stroke of his power who can or may resyste
But he must obey and to love be agreeable
Cōstreyned by cupyde whiche may stryke whome he lyst
Another darte he toke soone in his fyste
Contrary to thoder ledyn blont and hevy
With this he stroke Phebus love or she wyste
So that the more he desyred the more she dyd deny

Her name was Daphnys whiche devoyde of love
By dame saunce mercy whiche made hym to complayne
Cupyde in sondry wyse his power dyde prove
On thone with love on thoder with dysdayne
Thone dyd fle thoder wolde optayne
Thone was gladde thoder was in wo
Thone was pencyfe and oppressed with payne
Thoder in joye cared not thoughe it were so
By fere and dysdayne she dyd hym overgo
Lyke to an hare she ranne in haste
He folowed lyke a grehounde desyre wrought hym wo
But all was in vayne his labour was but waste.

Excerpt from The Castle of Pleasure by William Neville

Phebus set on pride and arrogant in courage
Spake these words of great audacity
Cupid thou boy of young and tender age
How mayst thou be so bold to compare with me
These arrows becomes me as thou mayst clearly see
Wherewith I may wound both man and beast
And for that at all creatures be subject to thee
So much is thy power less than mine at each feast
Well well said Cupid it liketh you to jest
This said he ascended to the Mount Parnassus
On the height his arms shortly abroad he cast
And said I trust I shall this in haste discuss.

For a proof he took forth of his arrow quiver
A golden dart with love right penetrable
Made sharp at the point that it might enter
With it he struck Phebus with a stroke right lamentable
It to resist he was weak and unable
The stroke of his power who can or may resist
But he must obey and to love be agreeable
Constrained by Cupid which may strike whom he list
Another dart he took soon in his fist
Contrary to the other force blunt and heavy
With this he struck Phebus love or she knew
So that the more he desired the more she did deny.

Her name was Daphnys which devoid of love
By dame without mercy which made him to complain
Cupid in sundry wise his power did prove
On the one with love on the other with disdain
The one did flee the other would obtain
The one was glad the other was in woe
The one was pensive and oppressed with pain
The other in joy cared not though it were so
By fear and disdain she did him overgo
Like to a hare she ran in haste
He followed like a greyhound desire wrought him woe
But all was in vain his labour was but waste.

From: Neville, William, The castell of pleasure The conueyaunce of a dreme how Desyre went to the castell of pleasure, wherin was the gardyn of affeccyon inhabyted by Beaute to whome he amerously expressed his loue vpon ye whiche supplycacyon rose grete stryfe dysputacyon, and argument betwene Pyte and Dysdayne, 2005, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan & Oxford, pp. [unnumbered].

Date: ?1530

By: William Neville (1497-c1545)

Wednesday, 31 August 2016

Sonnet by Pietro Bembo

Thou too then, Brother, in the tide of spring
Dying, hast left me solitary here,
Whence life, before so bright and glad a thing,
Is shadowed over with dismay and fear;
Justice it would have been and passionate
Desire of mine that hitherwards the dart
Firstly had sped, that as I was not late
In coming, so I might betimes depart.
Then I would not have known such deep despair,
Nor seen myself’s best portion borne away,
Nor been subjected to such misery;
But now, since I before thee might not fare,
God grant, Who loveth equity, I may
Be liberated soon and follow thee.


Date: 1530 (original in Italian), 1922 (translation in English)

By: Pietro Bembo (1470-1547)

Translated by: Lorna de’Lucchi (?-?)

Friday, 6 November 2015

Amaro Lagrimar – II. The Juniper Tree by Vittoria Colonna

See that lovely juniper, pressed so hard,
angry winds swirl round her, but she’ll not let
her leaves fall or scatter; clenched, branches held
high, she gathers strength; her refuge within.

This, my friend, is a picture of my soul
standing firm against all; if life’s ravaged,
weakened me, my fear’s contained, and I win
by enduring a pain which makes it hurt

to breathe. Mine was a noble dream, sheltered
in his splendor and love, my pride would be
restored; I would encounter life’s bitter

battles. Nature taught this tree to resist:
in me you see what reason can perform
how from the worst evil good can grow.


Date: c1530 (original in Italian); 2001 (translation in English)

By: Vittoria Colonna (1492-1547)

Translated by: Ellen Moody (1976- )