Love’s growth
I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude and seasons, as the grasse;
Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore,
My love was infinite, if spring make’it more.
But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not onely bee no quintessence,
But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense,
And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is growne;
As, in the firmament,
Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg’d, but showne.
Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough,
from loves awakened root do bud out now.
If, as in water stir’d more circles bee
Produc’d by one, love such additions take,
Those like so many spheares, but one heaven make,
For, they are all concentrinque unto thee;
And though each spring doe adde to love new heate,
As princes doe in time of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the springs encrease.
I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.
But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mix’d of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense,
And of the sun his active vigour borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse;
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As in the firmament
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love’s awakened root do bud out now.
If, as in water stirr’d more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those like so many spheres but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in times of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate this spring’s increase.
Crescita d’amore
Faccio fatica a credere il mio amore
puro come in me pensavo,
se come l’erba esso patisce
mutevoli vicende e le stagioni.
Durò tutto l’inverno allora la menzogna
di giurare che il mio amore era infinito,
se primavera lo accresce ancora.
Ma se questa medicina, l’amore, farmaco di ogni dolore,
di grande dolore, non è solo quintessenza,
ma mistura d’ogni sostanza, anima che soffre
o senso, e dal sole mutua
il fervido vigore, amore non è
purezza e astrazione, come è solito dire
chi ha la sua musa, unico amore.
Ma simile a ogni altra cosa, composta di elementi,
amore vuole contemplazione e azione.
Ma non più grande, più eminente
amore a primavera è fatto,
come nel firmamento il sole
non dà ampiezza alle stelle, ma risalto;
e gentili atti d’amore, fiori su un ramo,
ora sbocciano dalle sue radici deste.
Se come nell’acqua franta il primo cerchio
muove altri cerchi, se amore
conosce addizioni, esse lo sono
come le sfere che fanno un solo cielo,
perché tutte concentriche a te.
Se anche primavera aggiunge
nuovo ardore all’amore, come in guerra i principi
impongono nuove tasse, in pace non rimesse,
non c’è inverno che toglierà vigore
alla crescita primaverile d’amore.
Poetarum Silva 