Hedge, that divides the lovely
Hedge, that divides the lovely
Garden, and myself from me,
Never in you so fair a rose I see
As she who is my lady,
Loving, sweet and holy:
Who as I stretch my hand to you
Presses it, so softly, too.
poem by Torquato Tasso
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Life of my life, you seem to me
Life of my life, you seem to me
Like some pallid olive tree
Or the faded rose I see:
Nor do you lack beauty,
But pleasing in every way to me,
In shyness or in flattery,
Whether you follow me or flee,
Consume, destroy me softly.
poem by Torquato Tasso
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To His Mistress In Absence
FAR from thy dearest self, the scope
Of all my aims,
I waste in secret flames;
And only live because I hope.
O when will Fate restore
The joys, in whose bright fire
My expectation shall expire,
That I may live because I hope no more!
poem by Torquato Tasso
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Act I, sc. i, line 26
Perhaps if only once you did enjoy
The thousandth part of all the happiness
A heart beloved enjoys,
returning love,
Repentant, you would surely sighing say,
"All time is truly lost
and gone
Which is not spent in serving love."
poem by Torquato Tasso from Aminta (1573)
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O you, far colder, whiter
O you, far colder, whiter
Than she who makes less fair
The stars with shining there:
Her purest silver cannot dim
Nor any cloud, or rain or wind,
Your sweet brightness, lovely eyes.
Would you but turn to me, with delight,
I should be happy, and my life a dream.
poem by Torquato Tasso
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Once we were happy
Once we were happy, I
Loving and beloved,
You loved and loving, sweetly moved.
Then you became the enemy
Of love, and I to disdain
Found youthful passion change.
Disdain demands I speak,
Disdain, that in my breast
Keeps the shame of my neglected offering fresh:
And from your laurel
Tears the leaves, now dry, once beautiful.
poem by Torquato Tasso
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What weeping, or what dewfall,
What weeping, or what dewfall,
Whose then were those tears,
Flung from night’s cloak, I saw,
And the white face of the stars?
Why was the white moon sowing
A pure cloud’s crystal mass
In the lap of fresh new grass?
Why were the winds heard, blowing,
Through the dark air, round and round,
Till dawn, with mournful sound?
Were they perhaps the strife
Of your going, life of my life?
poem by Torquato Tasso
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To The Duchess Of Ferrara
Royal bride, see the time advance
That calls true lovers to the dance,
To charm the clear and frosty nights,
Beneath the soft and pleasing lights.
Now a young girl dares to hear,
Love’s secret pain, in her chaste ear,
And leaves her lover uncertain, gently,
At war, with life and death, sweetly.
Great palaces, painted ceilings high,
Echo with song: only I weeping make
This dark prison ring. And is this then
Your loyalty? This the great gift, that I
So longed for? Ah, then you call a grave,
And prison, your pity, and your recompense?
poem by Torquato Tasso
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Ecco Mormorar L'onde (Now The Waves Murmur)
Ecco mormorar l'onde,
E tremolar le fronde
A l'aura mattutina, e gli arboscelli,
E sovra i verdi rami i vaghi augelli
Cantar soavemente,
E rider l'Oriente;
Ecco già l'alba appare,
E si specchia nel mare,
E rasserena il cielo,
E le campagne imperla il dolce gelo,
E gli alti monti indora:
O bella e vaga Aurora,
L'aura è tua messaggera, e tu de l'aura
Ch'ogni arso cor ristaura.
Translation:
Now the waves murmur
And the boughs and the shrubs tremble
in the morning breeze,
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poem by Torquato Tasso
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Jerusalem Delivered - Book 01 - part 07
LXXXVI
"I see," quoth he, "some expectation vain,
In these false Christians, and some new content,
Our common loss they trust will be their gain,
They laugh, we weep; they joy while we lament;
And more, perchance, by treason or by train,
To murder us they secretly consent,
Or otherwise to work us harm and woe,
To ope the gates, and so let in our foe.
LXXXVII
"But lest they should effect their cursed will,
Let us destroy this serpent on his nest;
Both young and old, let us this people kill,
The tender infants at their mothers' breast,
Their houses burn, their holy temples fill
With bodies slain of those that loved them best,
And on that tomb they hold so much in price,
Let's offer up their priests in sacrifice."
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poem by Torquato Tasso
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