Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374) Rerum vulgarium fragmenta
Edmund Spenser Amoretti 1594
157
Quel sempre acerbo et honorato giorno
mandò sì al cor l’imagine sua viva
che ‘ngegno o stil non fia mai che ‘l descriva,
ma spesso a lui co la memoria torno.
SONNET LXXXI.
FAIR is my love, when her fair golden hairs,
with the loose wind ye waving chance to mark:
fair when the rose in her red cheeks appears,
or in her eyes the fire of love does spark.
Fair when her breast like a rich laden bark,
with precious merchandize she forth doth lay:
fair when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark
her goodly light with smiles she drives away.
But fairest she, when so she doth display,
the gate with pearls and rubies richly dight:
through which her words so wise do make their way
to bear the message of her gentle spright,
The rest be works of nature's wonderment,
but this the work of heart's astonishment.
L’atto d’ogni gentil pietate adorno,
e ‘l dolce amaro lamentar ch’i’udiva,
facean dubbiar, se mortal donna o diva
fosse che ‘l ciel rasserenava intorno.
La testa or fino, et calda neve il volto,
hebeno i cigli, et gli occhi eran due stelle,
onde Amor l’arco non tendeva in fallo;
perle et rose vermiglie, ove l’accolto
dolor formava ardenti voci et belle;
fiamma i sospir’, le lagrime cristallo.
Philip Sidney Astrophel and Stella 1591
9
Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face,
Prepared by Nature's choicest furniture,
Hath his front built of alabaster pure;
Gold in the covering of that stately place.
The door by which sometimes comes forth her Grace
Red porphir is, which lock of pearl makes sure,
Whose porches rich (which name of cheeks endure)
Marble mixed red and white do interlace.
The windows now through which this heav'nly guest
Looks o'er the world, and can find nothing such,
Which dare claim from those lights the name of best,
Of touch they are that without touch doth touch,
Which Cupid's self from Beauty's mine did draw:
Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw.
William Shakespeare Shakespeare’s Sonnets 1609
130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red,
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head:
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some pérfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet by heav’n I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.