“Que estranho caso de amor!” How strange a fate in love is mine! How dearly prized the pains I feel! Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, With avarice I conceal: For did the world the tale divine, My lot would then be deeper woe-- And mine is grief that none must know. To mortal ears I may not dare Unfold the cause, the pain I prove; ’Twould plunge in ruin and despair Or me, or her I love. My soul delights alone to bear Her silent, unsuspected woe, And none shall pity, none shall know. Thus buried in my bosom’s urn, Thus in my inmost heart conceal’d, Let me alone the secret mourn, In pangs unsoothed and unreveal’d. For whether happiness or woe, Or life or death its power bestow, It is what none on earth must know. SONNET 58. “Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata.” Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart Yet long enough protract his votary’s days To see the lustre from those eyes depart, The lode-stars[56] now that fascinate my gaze; To see rude Time the living roses blight That o’er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright To silvery whiteness, from their native gold; Oh! then thy heart an equal change will prove, And mourn the coldness that repell’d my love, When tears and penitence will all be vain; And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. [56] “Your eyes are lode-stars.”--Shakespeare. SONNET 178. “Já cantei, já chorei a dura guerra.” Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, While he the tale forbade me to disclose, That taught his votaries their deluded state. Nymphs! who dispense Castalia’s living stream, Ye, who from Death oblivion’s mantle steal, Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, Each grief by love inflicted to reveal: That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, May hear experience breathe a warning lay-- How false his smiles, his promises how vain! Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, When the sad task is o’er, my plaintive lyre, For ever hush’d, shall slumber in your fane. SONNET 80. “Como quando do mar tempestuoso.”