Sonnet 131 [I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion], Francesco Petrarca
I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion
that from her cruel side I would draw by force
a thousand sighs a day, kindling again
in her cold mind a thousand high desires;
I'd see her lovely face transform quite often
her eyes grow wet and more compassionate,
like one who feels regret, when it's too late,
for causing someone's suffering by mistake;
And I'd see scarlet roses in the snows,
tossed by the breeze, discover ivory
that turns to marble those who see it near them;
All this I'd do because I do not mind
my discontentment in this one short life,
but glory rather in my later fame.
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