The reader must be a true Petrarchist who is unconscious of a general similarity in the character of his sonnets, which, in the long perusal of them, amounts to monotony.  At the same time, it must be said that this monotonous similarity impresses the mind of Petrarch’s reader exactly in proportion to the slenderness of his acquaintance with the poet.  Does he approach Petrarch’s sonnets for the first time, they will probably appear to him all as like to each other as the sheep of a flock; but, when he becomes more familiar with them, he will perceive an interesting individuality in every sonnet, and will discriminate their individual character as precisely as the shepherd can distinguish every single sheep of his flock by its voice and face.  It would be rather tedious to pull out, one by one, all the sheep and lambs of our poet’s flock of sonnets, and to enumerate the varieties of their bleat; and though, by studying the subject half his lifetime, a man might classify them by their main characteristics, he would find they defy a perfect classification, as they often blend different qualities.  Some of them have a uniform expression of calm and beautiful feeling.  Others breathe ardent and almost hopeful passion.  Others again show him jealous, despondent, despairing; sometimes gloomily, and sometimes with touching resignation.  But a great many of them have a mixed character, where, in the space of a line, he passes from one mood of mind to another.

As an example of pleasing and calm reflection, I would cite the first of his sonnets, according to the order in which they are usually printed.  It is singular to find it confessing the poet’s shame at the retrospect of so many years spent.

          Voi ch’ ascoltate in rime sparse il suono.

    Ye who shall hear amidst my scatter’d lays
    The sighs with which I fann’d and fed my heart. 
    When, young and glowing, I was but in part
    The man I am become in later days;
    Ye who have mark’d the changes of my style
    From vain despondency to hope as vain,
    From him among you, who has felt love’s pain,
    I hope for pardon, ay, and pity’s smile,
    Though conscious, now, my passion was a theme,
    Long, idly dwelt on by the public tongue,
    I blush for all the vanities I’ve sung,
    And find the world’s applause a fleeting dream.

The following sonnet (cxxvi.) is such a gem of Petrarchan and Platonic homage to beauty that I subjoin my translation of it with the most sincere avowal of my conscious inability to do it justice.

    In what ideal world or part of heaven
    Did Nature find the model of that face
    And form, so fraught with loveliness and grace,
    In which, to our creation, she has given
    Her prime proof of creative power above? 
    What fountain nymph or goddess ever let
    Such lovely tresses float of gold refined
    Upon the breeze, or in a single