Petrarch: The Canzoniere, or Rerum vulgarium fragmenta

By Mark Musa, Francesco Petrarca

"Mark Musa, in modifying and translating Petrarch’s Canzoniere, has played an excellent carrier to the English-speaking reader. the following, in a single quantity, are incorporated the poet’s personal choice of the simplest lyric verse he wrote all through his existence, followed by way of short yet beneficial notes... " ―Chronicles

"As good as skillful and fluent verse renderings of the 366 lyrics that make up this milestone within the improvement of Western poetic culture, Musa bargains copious and updated annotation to every poem... besides a considerable, delicate, and clever advent that's certainly important for the first-time reader and inspiration scary for Petrarch students and different medievalists." ―Choice

The 366 poems of Petrarch’s Canzoniere characterize probably the most influential works in Western literature. assorted in shape, sort, and subject material, those "scattered rhymes" comprises metaphors and conceits which were absorbed into the literature and language of affection. during this bilingual variation, Mark Musa presents verse translations, annotations, and an advent co-authored with Barbara Manfredi.

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Ma s’ egli è amor, in line with Dio, che cosa et quale? se bona, ond’ è l’effetto aspro mortale? se ria, ond’ è sì dolce ogni tormento? S’ a mia voglia ardo, ond’ è ’l pianto e lamento? s’ a mal mio grado, il lamentar che vale? O viva morte, o dilettoso male, come puoi tanto in me s’ io nol consento? Et s’ io ’l consento, a gran torto mi doglio. Fra sì contrari venti in frale barca mi trovo in alto mar senza governo, sì lieve di saver, d’error sì carca ch’ i’ medesmo non so quel ch’ io mi voglio, e tremo a mezza kingdom, ardendo il verno. 131 I’d wish to sing of affection so another way that i'll draw through strength from her demanding facet 1000 sighs an afternoon, and that i may well kindle in her chilly brain one thousand deep wishes; I’d wish to see her stunning face swap frequently, her eyes changing into rainy, and with extra pity turning as one does who repents too overdue of another’s affliction and his personal blunders; to work out these deep purple roses within the snow moved by means of the breeze, the ivory exposed that turns to marble who observes it shut, and all of her that has made this brief existence no longer burdensome to endure, yet particularly wonderful in preserving for a season extra mature. 132 If it’s no longer love, then what's it i think: but when it’s love, through God, what's this factor? If reliable, why then the sour mortal sting? If undesirable, then why is each torment candy? If I burn willingly, why weep and grieve? And if opposed to my will, what stable lamenting? O dwelling loss of life, O satisfying damage, how will you rule me if I now not consent? And if I do consent, it’s improper to grieve. stuck in contrasting winds in a frail boat at the excessive seas i'm with no helm, so gentle of knowledge, so encumbered of blunders, that i actually have no idea what i would like, and shiver in midsummer, burn in wintry weather. 133 Amor m’à posto come segno a strale, come al sol neve, come cera al foco, et come nebbia al vento; et son già roco, Donna, mercé chiamando, et voi non cale. Dagli occhi vostri uscio ’l colpo mortale contra cui non mi val pace né loco; da voi sola procede (et parvi un gioco) il sole e ’l foco e ’l vento ond’ io son story. I pensier son saette, e ’l viso un sole, e ’l desir foco; e ’nseme con quest’arme mi punge Amor, m’abbaglia et mi distrugge; et l’angelico canto et le parole, col dolce spirto ond’ io non posso aitarme, son l’aura inanzi a cui mia vita fugge. 134 velocity non trovo et non ò da a ways guerra, e temo et spero, et ardo et son un ghiaccio, et volo sopra ’l cielo et giaccio in terra, et nulla stringo et tutto ’l mondo abbraccio. Tal m’à in pregion che non m’apre né serra, né according to suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio, et non m’ancide Amore et non mi sferra, né mi vuol vivo né mi trae d’impaccio. Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido, et bramo di perir et cheggio aita, et ò in odio me stesso et amo altrui. Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido, egualmente mi spiace morte et vita. In questo stato son, Donna, in keeping with vui. 133 Love’s made me like a objective for his arrows, like snow in solar, like wax inside a hearth, and prefer the mist in wind; and now I’m hoarse, woman, from begging mercy—and you don’t care.

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