174. ‘Fera stella (se ’l cielo à forza in noi’

in us, as some believe) under which I was born,

and cruel the cradle where I lay once born,

and cruel the earth, where my feet then walked:

and cruel the lady, who with her eyes,

and with her bow favouring me as target,

made a wound: Love, I’m not silent about these things,

since with those weapons you could heal my hurt.

But you take some delight from my sorrow:

she does not because it is not far worse,

being only an arrow-wound, and not a spear’s.

I console myself that to pine for her

is better than to joy in another: you swear it

by your golden arrow, and I believe you.

Notes