Alas!  I know death makes us all his prey,
    Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man;
    How swift the world completes its circling span,
    And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way. 
    My heart repeats the blast of earth’s last day,
    Yet for its grief no recompense can scan,
    Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban,
    And still my eyes their usual tribute pay. 
    My watchful senses mark how on their wing
    The circling years transport their fleeter kin,
    And still I bow enslaved as by a spell: 
    For fourteen years did reason proudly fling
    Defiance at my tameless will, to win
    A triumph blest, if Man can good foretell.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXXI.

Cesare, poi che ‘l traditor d’ Egitto.

THE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEART.

      When Egypt’s traitor Pompey’s honour’d head
    To Caesar sent; then, records so relate,
    To shroud a gladness manifestly great,
    Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed: 
    And, when misfortune her dark mantle spread
    O’er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,
    He laugh’d ’midst those who wept their adverse fate,
    That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred. 
    Thus doth the mind oft variously conceal
    Its several passions by a different veil;
    Now with a countenance that’s sad, now gay: 
    So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,
    ’Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,
    ’Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.

    NOTT.

      Caesar, when Egypt’s cringing traitor brought
    The gory gift of Pompey’s honour’d head,
    Check’d the full gladness of his instant thought,
    And specious tears of well-feign’d pity shed: 
    And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wrought
    On his afflicted empire evils dread,
    ’Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, sought
    To ease the anger at his heart that fed. 
    Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides,
    Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien,
    Bright’ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen. 
    Thus ever if I sing, or smile betides,
    The outward joy serves only to conceal
    The inner ail and anguish that I feel.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXXII.

Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi.

TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI.

      Hannibal conquer’d oft, but never knew
    The fruits and gain of victory to get,
    Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yet
    A like misfortune happen not to you. 
    Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q] who
    Rough pasturage and sour in May have met,