Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide,
    This frame corporeal mayst onward bear: 
    But a free spirit is concealed there,
    Which nor thy power nor any power can guide. 
    That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy’d,
    With course unvarying backward cleaves the air—­
    Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care—­
    And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel’s pride. 
    ’Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borne
    To meet the sun, as he leads on the day;
    And from a brighter west ’tis thine to turn: 
    Thy horned flood these passive limbs obey—­
    But, uncontrolled, to its sweet sojourn
    On Love’s untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.

    WRANGHAM.

SONNET CXLVIII.

Amor fra l’ orbe una leggiadra rete.

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NET.

      Love ’mid the grass beneath a laurel green—­
    The plant divine which long my flame has fed,
    Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—­
    A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread: 
    Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I ween
    Bitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread: 
    Gentle and soft his call, as ne’er has been
    Since first on Adam’s eyes the day was shed: 
    And the bright light which disenthrones the sun
    Was flashing round, and in her hand, more fair
    Than snow or ivory, was the master rope. 
    So fell I in the snare; their slave so won
    Her speech angelical and winning air,
    Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXLIX.

Amor che ’ncende ‘l cor d’ ardente zelo.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

      ’Tis Love’s caprice to freeze the bosom now
    With bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;
    And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern—­
    Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow. 
    In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,
    Now thrill’d with love, with jealousy now torn: 
    As if her thin robe by a rival worn,
    Or veil, had screen’d him from my vengeful blow
    But more ’tis mine to burn by night, by day;
    And how I love the death by which I die,
    Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing: 
    Not so my freezing fire—­impartially
    She shines to all; and who would speed his way
    To that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.

    WRANGHAM.

      Love with hot zeal now burns the heart within,
    Now holds it fetter’d with a frozen fear,
    Leaving it doubtful to our judgment here
    If hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win. 
    In June I shiver, burn December in,
    Full of desires, from jealousy ne’er clear;